


Can We Have a Once More?

by Ebozay



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Loss, POV Second Person, Pain, Past Relationship(s), Relationship(s), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-01 02:31:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 52,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10912518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebozay/pseuds/Ebozay
Summary: Sometimes life throws a spanner in the works, sometimes it throws you a curveball and all you can do is roll with it, all you can do is embrace it and try and move on. Even if that's the last thing you really want to do. And for Lexa? Life just isn't fair.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s a steady rhythm, your feet moving one after the other, and you follow them with even breaths, one after the other and you try and lose yourself in the motion as your feet hit the ground. The world flashes past you, a blur of greens and browns, of splashes of colour and of car horns in the distance and the early chatter of birds above you. And you’ve always liked running. But you’ve never liked the burn, the ache or the breathless mess you become after. But still, you’ve always liked it. If only because it lets you forget. If only because it lets you live in your own world. Just for a moment. 

You pass another early morning jogger, and she smiles at you softly, and you think her familiar, and you think you’ve probably seen her before. You are sure you have. You always take the same run, at the same time. And it’s a routine you follow, you keep to it and you never deviate. You’ve had enough surprises in your life. That, you’re sure of. 

And so you run, the cold of the morning air barely a thought, the warmth of your blood pumping rapidly through your veins and you let the sun wash over you. You let the warmth of it envelop you and you let the light blind you when you turn into it and you think the morning quiet, beautiful and calming. If only in the short hour you have before you must return home, to the apartment that waits for you, to the warm embrace that has become familiar and the soft scents of life that you hold dear. 

You think you should stop when your lungs burn and when your legs grow weak and unsure beneath you. But you never do and you always push through it, just a moment past comfort before stopping. You don’t know why you force yourself out of bed every morning. You don’t know why you push through the pain. 

But you think that’s a lie. You do know. It’s always the same.

But maybe you’ve grown used to lying to yourself. Maybe you’ve grown used to the denial. And so you ignore it. If only so that you can continue to live in that soft cocoon of ignorance that you think you’ve formed around yourself. 

And you wonder what she’d think, what she’d say. But you don’t— you can’t. You never let yourself think too long, too far back and so you push your thoughts elsewhere. 

Your last lap of the park comes quickly, your legs burning and you double over by the food cart,  force down lungfuls of chilling air, and you feel your chest heave and your heart beat an erratic, pain filled and deadened beat.

“The usual, Miss Woods?” The man asks then, a smile gracing his face and you look up at him, return a smile of your own, and you think it must come out a grimace, a painful, tired and lopsided thing but you don’t care, you don’t think he cares too, from the way he laughs and leans down, already in anticipation of your order. You think him a good man. Kind and caring, despite his stature, and you think that most of all, he enjoys life. If only because he is always here in the morning, a smile on his lips and kind words for those that pass. And you think it even reflected in the colour of his food cart, a soft pastel orange that glows faintly in the early sun, and you think the colour calming and soothing when the early morning light kisses it softly and you think it a guiding beacon that sits in the drab of your morning routine. And really, you think yourself macabre, somber and too negative. But really, you’ve always been a glass half empty kind of person. 

At least since—

“Here you go, Miss Woods,” and you shake your thoughts, reach out and take the bag he hands you and you let the warmth of the toasted sandwich bring life back into your slowly cooling fingers. You offer words of thanks as you rummage then, quickly in your pocket, and you pull out a few notes, hand him as close to the amount you owe and you know what he will say before you’ve finished and so you cut him off, a small smiling gracing your lips.

“It’s ok, keep the change,” and he sighs, and it’s familiar, kind and caring. “Take care, Gustus,” and you turn, waving deftly over your shoulder and you begin your painful walk back home.

 

* * *

 

Toasted ham and cheese. No tomato. You’ve always hated tomato. You’ve hated the acidic taste and the watery explosion. But ham and cheese? You can enjoy that. And when you bite into your breakfast, when you feel the burning of the cheese, you curse, you let the steam escape your mouth in soft whimpers and you embrace it. At least you can remember it. Remember what it’s like to feel the pain. 

And so your feet carry you down the quiet street. The occasional dog being walked passes and you smile softly at them, you let them sniff at your feet when they please and you continue on your way. And a memory, old and bittersweet comes to mind, of hours spent researching dog breeds, of hours spent looking for the perfect dog, and hours spent arguing over a _name_. And you remember her smile, and you remember her frustration at your insistence that you would have a _real_ dog — a German Shepherd, a Labrador, a Rottweiler even, and not some small _toy_ dog. But you think she would have convinced you. You are sure she would have, given enough time. If only— 

 _No,_ it still hurts. Still leaves a biting wound deep within your mind and you think you feel the tears begin to well up slowly in the corner of your eyes and so you shake your head, shake the thoughts from your mind.

_Enough._

You come to a stop at the crossing lights, a building rising up before you and so you look up. The muddy red brick a familiar pattern in its age and your eyes scan the third floor windows, and you search for her. Most are curtained, most hide away from the outside cold — and why wouldn’t they? It isn’t even seven yet. But you see her. You see her lean against the window, a mug in her hand and you know it will be the green one she bought. _Because it’s the shade of your eyes_ she had said. And you smile at the memory. And you know it will hold tea, black, two sugars. And you grimace, you always preferred coffee. But she sees you and waves gently down at you as you begin crossing the road and you smile at her, let your lips pull up at the corners and you let the warmth her presence brings sit comfortably within you. 

And as you near the entrance to your apartment, you think she makes the pain bearable. If only for a while.

 

* * *

 

Your keys scrape in the lock, and you fumble them, a curse leaving your lips at the cold of your hands, the morning run’s warming glow having left you cold and your breakfast long since eaten. You curse quietly again, pull a loose strand of hair from your eyes but you feel the door knob turn and so you step back, let the door swing open and you smile at her, and you let your eyes trail down her body, loosely wrapped in her oversized t-shirt, and your eyes narrow, if only for a moment, because it _is_ yours _._ But you always liked it on her more. You think it suits her, you think it flatters her body, the soft of her thighs exposed to the cold and you eye the goose bumps that slowly spread over them and she must see your eyes wander, must see your eyes linger a moment too long further up, the cold catching your attention and so she pokes you hard in the chest, and she laughs, curls her hand around your wrist and tugs you inside, a soft kiss placed upon your lips. 

“It’s cold,” she sighs, leaning into your arms. “Get inside you perv,” and you laugh, let her pull you further into your small apartment and so you place a lingering kiss under her jaw, and she hums, and it’s soft, soothing and calming, but she again pokes your chest, causing you to look up into her eyes, and you see the kind hazel that looks back. “As much as I appreciate the affection,” and she pauses, lets her finger wander. “You smell. So go have a shower,” and you laugh again, let the sound live somewhere in your throat and you kiss her once more.

“You love it,” you whisper then, and you let your lips linger against hers for a moment, letting it heat the space between you both, but then you pull away. You pull away and quickly race past her, and you hear the soft whimper and the quiet curse. 

It’s not far to the bathroom, just a quick right turn and a short walk down the hallway. You snatch a fresh towel from the linen cupboard as you pass and you begin peeling off your clothes, and you glance over your shoulder as you let your top fall to the ground, a silent invitation for her and you smirk, it’s mischievous and expectant, and you catch her eyes linger a moment longer than polite. 

You let the hot water steam the bathroom. You let it linger in the air and you breathe in deeply. And you think it ready when you see the steam cling carefully to the mirror and so you step under the hot spray. You let the water beat down on your body and you stand there for a long moment. You let the drops hit your face, a searing heat that washes away the past and the pain and the sweat of your morning run. And you smile when you hear the door open. You smile when you hear the shower door slide closed. And you smile when you feel her arms wrap themselves around your waist. And you smile when you feel her cheek rest against your shoulder. And so you turn and you pull her under the heat of the shower and you see her gasps slightly at the temperature and you see her nose scrunch up, if only for a moment before she relaxes and she leans forward, lets her nose bump yours gently and she murmurs softly under the beating of the water. “You always have it too hot,” but you know she doesn’t mind. You know she enjoys it. If only because you like it and so you kiss her, let your lips wander and you enjoy the quiet moment as you imagine the heat washing away your pain.

 

* * *

 

It always takes her longer to exit the bathroom. Her hair much more wild than yours. Much more curly and much more unruly. But you don’t mind. You think you appreciate the contrast. The difference in shade. You think you enjoy that she isn’t _her._ You think it would be too hard if she was too similar. And so you sit at the kitchen bench, a fresh cup of tea waiting for her and the soft hum of the news wafting in from the living room TV. 

You hear the quiet pop of the toast and you turn, taking your plate with you and you quickly place the still too hot toast onto it, shaking your fingers a moment to cool them. And it’s a Wednesday. Hump day. A day where things will inevitably go wrong at work and so you choose peanut butter and jelly. If only because it will give you an extra kick to start your day, on top of your toasted sandwich — curtesy of Gustus. You slice the fruit then, an apple and a banana, and you spread it over the cereal that she always has and you smile as you decorate it carefully, and you shape the fruit, the apple slices petals that leave a soft embrace of banana circles within it. 

You hear her pad quietly out of the bathroom then, and you look up from eating your toast, you see the skirt she wears and the modest blouse and you smile. “Very grown up of you,” you laugh when she twirls happily. “You look fine,” you quickly add when you see her frown slightly as she pats down the hem of her skirt. 

“It’s not too short?” She asks, worry in her voice and you quickly shake your head.

“No, it’s fine, it’s lovely,” and you stand, move closer to her and push her towards the kitchen bench where her breakfast lies. “Unless you’re going to work at a church,” and she laughs, your joke calming her worried thoughts.

“They’re ninth graders though, Lexa. You know how they’re like,” and you roll your eyes, pass her the milk and spoon before you answer.

“You look fine, _Miss Costia_ ,” and she grimaces, and you chuckle softly and you think you know what she will say.

“Please, don’t ever call me that again,” and she pins you with a stern look, but you merely shrug, offer her a quick kiss and turn to retrieve your slowly cooling cup of coffee.

When you turn back to her, taking a sip, you eye her as she pokes carefully around the fruit. “You can eat them you know. They’re just fruit,” and she looks up at you, mock insult resting on her face.

“And destroy the beautiful art you’ve made? Never,” and you roll your eyes, and you smile. But your thoughts wander, they drift without your permission and you can’t help but to think that you’ve never been much of an artist. _Not like she was, a_ nd you think your expression must sour, must turn darker for a moment because she quickly interrupts. _“_ Hey, you ok, Lex?” and you look up to see her eyeing you carefully, her hand reaching out to take yours and so you meet her half way.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” but it’s a lie, you know it and you think she knows it by the way her hand squeezes yours softly. But she understands. She always will. And you think you love her because of it. And so you say once more. “I’m ok,” and she smiles at you, giving your hand a quiet squeeze before she releases it.

You let your thoughts wander then, the smell of coffee infusing itself into your body and you breathe it in. You let it wake you fully and you let your mind rehearse what you think you will be required to do today. And as you catalogue and sift and prioritise the challenges you hear the TV blare a loud beat. You hear the screeching of tires from the speakers and you look up, you see the car flash past the screen and you see the actor, his face serious and you see the title and you smell the coffee. You let both senses take hold and you can’t help but to remember. 

 

* * *

 

_“It’s not far. I promise, Lexa,” and she smiles at you. Her eyes bright and her hair shining in the sun. And you think you should grumble. You think you should protest her walking you half way around the city but you don’t. You don’t if only because you are with her, and she holds your hand in hers. And you think yourself content. You round a corner then, and you smell the coffee and you smell the toasting of sandwiches and you raise an eyebrow at her._

_“A coffee shop?” you ask, and she sighs, rolls her eyes and nods before pulling you forward. “Isn’t there one right down the street from us? That we always go to?” and again she rolls her eyes before ushering you inside._

_“But it isn’t_ this _one. Trust me,” and you do. You do trust her. Regardless of her choice of coffee and her propensity for walking much too far, and, besides, it is a first date. So perhaps you can indulge her._

_She sits you down at a small, quiet, out of the way table by the far wall, and she quickly passes you a menu. And when you look down at it you can’t help but to roll your eyes. You can’t help but to scoff slightly at the names. You won’t even repeat them. They’re just so… hipster? And you can’t even believe you’ve thought of that word._

_“What’re you having?” she asks then, her lip between her teeth and a small frown sitting comfortably on her forehead._

_“Whatever you’re having,” you reply, a small smile gracing your lips and you think you enjoy the way her cheeks redden. And you think you enjoy the way she ducks her head softly. And you know you enjoy the way her eyes sparkle softly as she looks up at you._

_“Smooth, Woods,” and she smiles, flipping her hair over her shoulder._

_And so you smile back._

_“You’re welcome, Griffin.”_

_She leaves to order, whatever it is that one orders at such an establishment, and you turn in your seat and take in the small cafe. Your eyes catch the TV that sits on the wall, and you recognise the commercial that plays, you recognise the actor and you think your eyes roll._

_“What?” she says then, sitting back down, handing you a knife and fork, and she follows your eyes towards the TV._

_“I can’t believe they’re making a second one,” you say. “The first was bad enough,” and she laughs, a gentle rasp to her voice._

_“You seemed to enjoy it when we all went to see it,” she questions, her eyebrow raising in challenge. And you had enjoyed it. If only because she had been there, despite the boisterous laughter of Raven and Bellamy._

_“I only liked it because you were there,” and again she blushes. And so you smirk. And you think that you could get used to this. And it’s easy. It’s familiar and it’s comfortable. And you think yourself thankful that you met as friends first. And that there is no awkward_ get to know you _first date questions, and so you reach out, take her hand softly in yours and you whisper out to her. “I’m glad we finally did this.”_

_And she smiles, the blue of her eyes shining brightly in the morning sun._

_“Me too.”_

 

* * *

 

You walk to work. It isn’t far, only a brisk twenty minutes. And you like the exercise. It helps you keep your mind from wandering and you think your mind has done too much of that recently. And you blame the month. You blame _this_ month _._ And how many years has it been? You think five. Almost six? You aren’t sure. But despite the time it still hurts. But you think you must move on. Isn’t that what she wanted? For you to move on? To not lose yourself? And so you shake the thoughts from your mind, and you greet the receptionist as you push your way through the glass doors to the high-rise building. 

You stand in the crowded elevator and you quietly curse whoever it was that decided that your firm had to be on the 56th floor. You hear someone mutter a quiet apology as they accidentally stand on your foot and you merely roll your eyes, offering a reluctant sigh in recognition. And it seems an eternity, but the doors slide open to your immense pleasure and you quickly exit, greeting the few you pass towards your office.

You’ve hardly sat down, you’ve hardly turned your computer on when your door opens with a swift bang and your head snaps up, scowl already firmly in place at the intrusion. “I can not believe the idiot. This is for you, and this too. And you need. And I stress _need_ to speak to Daniels first thing Lexa. He is losing his shit,” and you eye Anya as she stands before you, eyes glinting daggers at the reports she had placed on your desk. She sighs then, pulls the chair out from the desk and drops herself down before dragging her hand over her face. “It’s ridiculous. He’s ridiculous.” she says, exasperation colouring her tone. “You have to fire him. I swear.” 

“What did he do now?” you ask then and you continue to eye her carefully as you reach out for the reports, and you grimace at the first page, but you can’t help but laugh, if only slightly at the bold, aggressive underlines Anya has made, clearly marking the errors. 

“He ticked the wrong. Damn. Box.” she jabs her finger down onto your desk at each word, “and cost the client,” she pauses, takes a deep breath before releasing it in one large billowing, angry exhale, “three million dollars.” 

“Oh,” _that’s not good._

“Yeah, exactly.” 

 

* * *

 

You sit at a cafe, just around the corner, and you enjoy the moment you have before your lunch break is over. Anya sits before you, quietly seething and you look at her above the rim of your mug. She looks well, you think, probably better than you do, but it’s to be expected you think. Shouldn’t it be? 

You don’t really know what you should be feeling this month. But maybe something other than denial.

“Lexa,” you look up at your name and you see Anya gaze steadily at you. And you think you know what she will say, and so you lean back, and you let a soft sigh escape your lips. “How are you holding up?” and you know that Anya will drop it. You know she will move on to a different topic, one not so raw and painful. All you have to do is say so but you think you owe her as much as you can. Didn’t she suffer too? 

So you breathe out slowly, “I’m ok,” and you look into her eyes, and you think she understands. And you know you aren’t fine. And you think she knows you may never be fine _._ But you think you are ok. 

Ok knowing that this is your life now.

“I’m ok.” 

_But it still hurts._

_It stills feels real and fresh and raw._

_You aren’t ok._

 

* * *

 

You let your feet take you back to your office, the constant step an even rhythm that keeps your mind busy. If only for a moment. And you embrace it. You think you’ve been doing a lot of that lately. But it’s always the same. Each year. And so you find it familiar, comforting, and perhaps, if you’re being truthful, just a bit sad. Just a bit pathetic. 

You stop at the lights, and you watch as cars speed past. You see the bus, always running late as it speeds through the changing lights and you silently curse the driver, and you hope that one day he won’t hit someone. You quickly scan left and right, and as the pedestrian light turns green you take a step forward with the crowd. But you pause. Your eye catches a flash of colour ahead of you and you freeze. You think your blood stills and you think your heart clenches painfully in your chest. And your eyes follow the movement. Your eyes follow the soft sway of the woman’s hair as she walks towards your office high rise. You see her stop before the doors and look up and you think you’d recognise her, you think you’d recognise the swinging of her arms and the way her hair falls carefully down her back. But it can’t be. It wouldn’t be and it shouldn’t be and so you close your eyes and you shake your head. And you clench your fist until you feel your nails dig painfully into your palm and when you open your eyes again she’s gone. And you think you breathe out slowly and painfully and you think you need rest and sleep. 

 

* * *

 

You creep to your apartment door, careful to avoid any excess noise and you wince as your keys scrape against the lock. You know you’re late. It’s already almost ten and you think you stayed at work to hide, stayed back and tried to collect your thoughts. Tried to make sense of what you had seen before you had to face Costia. And you know she will sense something wrong. You know she will be understanding. But you don’t think you deserve it.

And so you open your door carefully, setting your coat on the hanger before you remove your shoes, thankful to be free of them at last and as you move through the room you hear the soft patter of the shower and so you call out to her and smile when she returns your greeting, a cheerful sound for you to hear.

You change into more comfortable clothes, the restricting suit pants and buttoned shirt too tight, too wearing on you and you let yourself lounge for a moment on the bed, let your mind catch up and you think of what you thought you saw. But it isn’t her. Can’t be her. You know that much but your thoughts are broken by a quiet murmur at the door and you look up from where you lie back on the bed.

“Hey,” she smiles softly at you, “rough day?” and she moves closer, a towel still wrapped around herself and she sits down by your side, running a soothing hand up and down your arm. And you hum your response as you let your eyes flutter closed, enjoying the warmth of her hand as it traces circles across your forearm, “don’t fall asleep,” she whispers then, placing a quick kiss to your cheek, “I’ll get changed and heat dinner up.”

 

* * *

 

_“Stop,” you try and sound stern. You try and swat her hand away but she continues, she ignores your harsh glare and moves closer under the covers, “I’m serious, I really need to study,” and she moves even closer, lets her hand wander under the cover, a smile in her eyes._

_“It can wait,” and she presses a quick kiss to your lips, before she rolls and quickly throws a leg over you, straddling your body and pushing your notes aside._

_“Clarke,” and you try and protest but you know you won’t last. And you know she knows so when she pushes you down, when she leans over you and when she lets her shirt fall open and when your eyes wander she smirks._

_“Let me do the work, Lex.”_

 

* * *

 

You wake with a start. And you feel the frantic beating of your heart and you pause for a moment, the cool air biting into your exposed skin. 

_It was just a dream._

_Only a dream._

And you close your eyes tight, your hand covering your face and you fight to kill the sob you feel building in your throat. But it’s hard. It always has been and so you quickly, carefully, quietly move from the bed, loathe as always to disturb Costia and you pull on a soft shirt before you walk out into the living room. And you know that sleep won’t find you again tonight. It never does after you dream of her and so you glide over the cool wooden floor in search of a warming companion.

Minutes pass quietly and you find yourself resting against the window sill, a warm cup of coffee in your hands and your fingers burning just a bit, just a touch towards the uncomfortable, but you embrace it. It makes you feel alive. And so your eyes focus somewhere outside, the soft pattering of the rain a steady drum beat echoing through the walls and you let it lull you into a quiet trance, your eyes chasing the drops of rain as they race slowly down the window. Your gaze catches the changing of the traffic lights and you think it soothing and calming and steady in its pattern.

_Red — Yellow — Green_

It’s reliable. Constant and always there. It has always been there. It has always been in moments like this when you wake from the dreams. The lights have been there to ease you back, to soften the blow and to lessen the hurt. And you think you need that stability, however slight. Ever since— 

_Stop._

You whisper the word aloud and you know you shouldn’t dwell on it. And so you turn from the window, let the soft hints of the coffee infuse themselves with your mind and you take a gentle sip. And as you breathe out a quiet breath you find yourself thinking for only a moment that wherever she is, that wherever she has found herself you hope she is happy. And it surprises you when you feel a wet drop land on your hand, and when you swipe angrily at your eye, and when you bring the back of your hand away from your face you think the wet trail that lingers must be a surprise and a truth you refuse to face.

But maybe you aren’t surprised. 

Shouldn’t you be used to this by now?

And before you lose yourself to your thoughts. Before you retreat back into the quiet embrace of a soft revelry you think your mind whispers out, whispers a question, a truth, and a plea.

_Where’d you go?_

_I miss you._

_Clarke?_

 

* * *

 

You creep back into bed, the warmth a welcome comfort and you feel a stab of guilt and pain when Costia moves closer, wraps her arm around you and kisses your neck softly.

“Are you ok?” she whispers and it’s tired, rough from sleep but she holds you close, and you nod your head quietly, hum a response and you feel her squeeze you kindly, and you feel her tangle her legs with yours and you feel the gentle press of her lips once again on the back of your neck, and before she drifts back into a peaceful, worried slumber you hear her whisper out to you, reaching for you in words.

_I’m not going anywhere, Lexa._

_I’ll be here in the morning._

_I love you._

 


	2. Chapter 2

_“Fight Clarke,” you plead and you beg and you cry out. “Please — Please, don’t give up. I’m here. Fight for us,” and you cough and you splutter an ugly, desperate sound. “Please. Stay with me.” And you are sure your tears must be falling, leaving a wet, haphazard trail across your cheeks and you want to reach out, you want to hold her tight. But you can’t. You can’t. Your arms feel trapped in a cold embrace and you think yourself suffocating. You think your heart breaks and you think yourself lost._

_“I’m sorry,” she chokes through the lump in her throat, her own tears glistening sideways across her cheek and you see the pain in her eyes. You see the love. You see the acceptance. You see the regret. “I don’t think I can anymore,” and you see her lips quiver gently and you see her eyes close slowly, and you want to rage and shake and scream out._

_But all you do. All you can manage. All you can comprehend is the pain and the heart break and the cold feeling that traps you and seals the beating of your heart in your tired chest._

_And when you think she leaves you forever?_

_You think you whisper to her once more through the storm that rages through your mind and ravages your body, and you think it quiet. You think it broken. And you think it helpless._

_Please don’t leave me._

 

* * *

 

You wake, a frantic beat living in your chest and you hate it. You hate the feeling of being trapped. You hate the feeling of not being able to do anything and so you brush a hand roughly over your face and you clench your fist tightly and you hold your breath for a long, pained moment. And when you think your breathing is controlled you let the calm of a Saturday morning, in its quiet grasp and soft embrace take hold within you. And without the need to wake early, without the need to bring yourself to work you think you can enjoy the quiet moment before Costia wakes. You can enjoy the warmth of your bed and enjoy the light as it dances across her naked back. And so you turn over softly, tuck your arms under your head and smile at the softness that sits comfortably on Costia’s shoulders. Your eyes trace her then, and you memorise every dip, every curve, every small freckle and every small detail that covers her body. You want to make sure you’ll remember it. If only because you don’t ever want to forget. Don’t ever want to _not remember._ You think you owe her that much. And so you reach out softly, let your finger tangle in her hair and you smile as you spin it between your fingers and you enjoy the warmth and the feel of soft velvet and you enjoy the slight scent of the shampoo that still clings. But you think that above all, you enjoy her. 

You aren’t sure how long you stay lying there besides her. Perhaps an hour, maybe almost two from the sun that streams in through your window. And you think it fitting that the sun should shine through, should sometimes blind you with the shifting of its movements through the sky. And when you trace the dust that float within the soft rays of light you think it a soothing, calming laziness. And you smile gently when you imagine Costia grimacing, when she will eventually sweep the floor. But you don’t mind. You think it reminds you that the world isn’t perfect. Isn’t always what you want. But you think that it important to try and find the beauty where you can. _If you can._

She murmurs quietly in her sleep then, rolls closer to you and wraps a lazy arm around your waist and you smile, brighter and just a bit more carefree and you place a delicate kiss upon her nose, let it sit a moment before you bring another to her forehead. And you chuckle when she scrunches her nose, when she whines and buries her head in your shoulder.

“You wake up too early,” it comes out muffled and a whisper, but you see the smile that tugs smoothly at the corner of her mouth, “especially for a Saturday,” she continues before pressing closer to you. And you lean into her arms, you let the sheets tangle between you and you feel content. Or as content as you could. 

“What time is it?” she asks then, rubbing her hand carefully across her eyes, still refusing to open them and you smile, glancing over your shoulder at the clock.

“Not even eight,” and you laugh as she shoves you in the shoulder and she turns, buries her face in a pillow before you hear a muffled reply. 

“Go for your run and leave me alone.” 

 

* * *

 

Your feet hit the pavement, a steady, familiar and constant rhythm that moves in time to the blood flowing through your veins and the soft thump of the pulse rushing in your ears and you enjoy this feeling. You enjoy the constant ache and the soft pain in your leg and you enjoy being able to forget and to concentrate on simply keeping one foot in front of the other. 

There’s more people out. Mostly those crazy enough as you are to sacrifice a Saturday sleep in and you let them pass you quickly. You let them fade into the blurs of green and browns of the trees and you let them mix into the flashes of blues and reds and yellows of their clothing and you smile when you see a dog chasing a ball or a child tripping over too big feet and you enjoy being able to exist without an otherworldly care. If only for an hour, however short it may be. You let the sun rise steadily before you until the rays shine painfully into your eyes and as you come to a drink fountain you take the time to slow your stride, you take the time to ease yourself into a steady jog before coming to a tired stop, already bending to take a drink. And it’s refreshing, it’s chilling and you enjoy it, despite the cool of the air and you wipe your hair from your face and you see yourself, red faced and chest heaving in the chrome of the handle. 

And you see it then. The soft colour of her hair and the gold shine as the suns touches it briefly and you freeze and you shiver for a moment despite the warmth of the blood you feel pumping through your veins. And you remember.

 

* * *

 

_“Firstly, I can’t believe Bellamy and Raven actually slept together. And second. Ew.” You look at her and you smile, but perhaps it’s a grimace from the way she rolls her eyes and guffaws through the too large mouthful of sandwich she bites into, and it’s not that you don’t like Bellamy, or Raven for that matter, and in Raven’s case you weren’t blind, but, well, Bellamy’s a dude. And you’d rather not imagine what was involved._

_“See, even Anya agrees with me,” and you turn to see Clarke pointedly looking Anya’s way and you think your eyes narrow then at the scowl resting across Anya’s face, and when Anya, in all her deftness stabs a knife into a sausage you think your eyes narrow even further._

_“How’s medical school,” Anya interrupts then, a change of topic clearly her aim, and you see Clarke sigh, wipe her mouth quickly and throw her head back in thought._

_“Hard. Long,” and you think your mouth must quirk up slightly, and you think Anya must smirk too because Clarke grimaces for a moment, her cheeks reddening and then she throws one of far too many plastic forks your way._

_“But seriously,” she continues, “it’s kicking my ass. I knew it’d be hard. And the_ course _is long,” she pauses, breathes a moment, “but it’s good. I’m enjoying it.” And she smiles, leaning back on her elbows as the sun falls across her face and you think, if not for one more countless time, that her hair shines brilliantly in moments like this. But you shake your thoughts quickly, if only so that you aren’t caught staring and so you turn to your bag, rummaging around for your hastily wrapped lunch. Ham and cheese sandwich, and unfortunately not toasted. You try and work your nails under the plastic wrap, and you think you almost succeed but it tears and slips from your fingers, your nails far too short for any successful unwrapping. And you sigh, look to Anya for help but you find her already lying back in the grass, sunglasses firmly in place, a clear indicator that she wishes to be left to her own, often violent thoughts and so you turn to Clarke, a question already lingering in your eyes that she must read because she holds her hands up quickly, an apologetic look flashing across her face._

_“Sorry,” she laughs, “I don’t have nails either.” And you see her freeze for a moment, her eyes widening before she coughs, and turns her face._

Oh _. You think._ Interesting _._

 

* * *

 

You stand from the drink fountain, wipe a sweaty hand across your forehead and turn to look at the woman you think you saw, but she’s already fading back through the crowd and so you let out a shaky breath, let your thoughts collect themselves and then you turn away. And you think you must be mad. You think you must be losing your mind. Maybe you’re tired. Maybe you just need sleep.

You continue your run, but your legs don’t carry the same determination, don’t carry you forward with the same spring and so you end up jogging a pathetic, slow cadence that leaves you entirely unsatisfied as you come to a stop besides the food cart. You smile up at Gustus then, leaning against the side of it to catch your breath and you feel a prod at your back, and so you turn and your eyes fall onto the water bottle offered your way. 

“You look like you could use it,” it’s warm and friendly, and so you reach out, snaring it in your still shaking hands and he cuts you off quickly as he eyes you reaching into your pocket. “It’s on the house,” and he shakes his head as your mouth opens in protest, “I insist.”

“Thanks,” and you cough as the cool liquid wets your throat, and you stand for a moment’s silence and you look on as Gustus quickly serves the morning exercisers that come, red faced and sweaty.

“You’ve got a monopoly on the park,” you observe, and Gustus merely chuckles, and it’s deep, a baritone that loses itself in his beard. 

“It helps,” and he shrugs, “it’s done well for the months the bar’s been closed,” he continues, and he holds up a slice of bread in question and you murmur a words of thanks, holding up two fingers quickly.

“When’s it opening?” and you look skyward, try and trace back the months since he closed it for renovation and you feel a moment of guilt when you can’t quite recall how long it’s been.

“Couple of weeks,” he says then, “and you’ll be there. With Costia, who I’m assuming the second one is for?” and he nudges your shoulder again, and you can’t help but wobble forward for a moment, his bulk carrying you further than you’d like. 

“So you’ll call Costia by her first name, but not me?” you glower at him, taking another quick mouthful of water in the process and he just laughs, it’s a sharp, loud bark that clears your tiring mind.

“You’re a business woman now. And a successful one at that, can’t be going around calling the infamous Miss Woods anything else,” and you think your eyes roll. 

 

* * *

 

You walk back home, a slow, leisurely pace not at all set by your wobbly legs and your strange sightings. You pause at the crossing and you can’t help but to feel a spark of longing at the golden Labrador that streaks past in a car, it’s head hanging out the window, ears and tongue flailing in the breeze. And you smile despite the sadness that you think builds slowly and surely. But it’s a constant companion. A familiar friend and a strange enemy and so you embrace it. If only because you might drown if you didn't.

The walk up the stairs isn’t long, just two flights and then you’re scraping a key into the lock and you can hear the soft waves of music sweep out from under the door and you smile at the familiar tune. 

Costia moves through the kitchen, her hair messily knotted and her hands full. She looks up at the door and smiles when she sees you entering, and before she can reach out and steal you away you hold out your hand in warning.

“I need a shower first,” and she rolls hers eyes before turning her back to you, already bending to search the fridge.

“If you didn’t run so much maybe you’d get to hug me more,” she sings over her shoulder and you laugh, and you enjoy these moments. 

At least you feel normal. 

And so you walk down the hall, but not before pulling your shirt off and flinging it carefully at her and you hear the surprised yelp and the gag over your shoulder before you disappear into the bathroom.

 

* * *

 

You like the heat. You like the soft burn and the steady beat down your skin. You never used to. But you do now and you think it the same with a lot of things. You think it the same as your runs that last too long. You think it the same as the cheese that always burns your mouth and you think it the same as the too hot coffee you hold in your hands. But it lets you know you’re alive. And so you turn your face towards the steady stream of water and let it wet your hair and sting your face. You begin massaging the shampoo in softly. You let it lather and you let the smell infuse itself around you and you smile when you hear the bathroom door open. And you smile when you hear the soft thud of the shower door slide shut and you smile when you feel her fingers trace down your thigh softly, a steady ache that sits familiar along her finger’s path. 

“Does it hurt?” she whispers, her fingers soft and gentle in their trail. And you think it does. But only a bit and so you shake your head. 

“Not really, just ran a bit too far,” and you smile when you feel her press closer and you smile when she places a soothing kiss across your collar. 

You turn her around then, let your hands slowly massage the shampoo in and you hold her close as the water washes it away. And when she turns, when she faces you and when she pushes you firmly against the shower wall you let your eyes close, you let your thoughts wander and when you feel her kneel, when you hear her whisper.

_Let me do the work, Lex_

You try not to cry and you try not to let her see. And you think she deserves better. 

You know she does.

 

* * *

 

You find yourself sitting alone in the living room. Your feet tucked under you and the sun a soft haze through the clouds. Costia left to help her sister move and so you enjoy the quiet moment you have. And you had offered to come, had offered to lend a hand, but Costia had merely shook her head, had told you to rest and had kissed you quickly before exiting, leaving behind a lingering, cheerful look.

You think over the blonde you thought you had seen then. You let yourself focus on it and you think it strange and cruel that you’d connect her with the memories. She looked similar. She looked the same. But not really. She’d been different, even if you’d only seen her through a muffled reflection. But your thoughts drift to the woman you’d seen days earlier. The one who had looked up at your office high rise and you think that maybe you need a break. Maybe you need to rest. To change your routine. 

And you hear the cruel whisper in the recess of your mind and you close your eyes and listen softly as it reaches out to you.

_She’s not here anymore._

Your eyes drift to your phone then, you let them sit on it for a moment and you contemplate making a call. You think about what it would seem like, to call out of the blue. To just say hi. It’d be presumptuous. Wouldn’t it? It’d be cruel and heartless to do so, wouldn’t it? Just because you were feeling _something —_ you don’t even know what. But maybe she’d like to hear your voice, like to hear what you’ve been doing. Just to know that you’re still alive.

And so you reach out. Let your fingers quickly unlock the phone and press softly against her name and then you wait. You think you hear your heart beat furiously in your chest and you think you feel your hands shake for just a moment and then you hear it. It’s bright, gentle and familiar. 

“Lexa?” it’s surprised. It’s shocked and it’s loving. 

_Maybe this was a bad idea._

“Hey,” you don’t know what to say. What could you say? It’s been years. 

“Oh my God, Lexa,” and you think you hear her cry. You think you hear the shaking of her breath and the shuddering of her heart and you think you feel your own tears well, and you know you’re crying when she offers you soothing reassurances and soft _ok’s_ and _just breathe’s._

But it’s never ok.

“I— I,” you cut yourself off, “this was a bad idea,” and you go to hang up, you go to turn away but you hear her voice, frantic and pleading. 

“No! Wait, Lexa, wait!” And don’t you owe her this much?

And so you stay, you wait and let the silence hang between you both and you let your hands steady and your breaths even out before you speak again, and you think she does the same. You think she needs the same.

“How are you?” she asks then, and you can hear the want in her voice and the love. And it hurts.

“I’m ok,” you whisper then, let your eyes close and you let a soft smile linger. 

And so she tells you of the hospital she works at. She tells you of the nurses she is in charge of and the people she works with and you smile. It’s good to hear her voice again. You’ve missed it. Despite everything that’s happened and you think you stayed away too long. You think you punished her more than yourself and you think that you were selfish to ignore her own pain. Her own anguish. Her own loss.

“Tell me what you’ve been up to,” she says then.

You don’t know where to start. But maybe the truth is the best place to. It must be. And so you breathe in softly, and you hold it for a painful moment before letting it go in a steady, accepting exhale.

“I met someone,” and you pause, to let her interject if she wishes. But she doesn’t, “her name’s Costia,” you continue, and you think you hear the soft hiccup she releases, “I’m happy,” _as much as I can be._ But you don’t voice it. “We’re happy,” you continue, “we’re living together, same city. I couldn’t leave. Not when everything I have is here,” you whisper the last part, let the words sink in. But maybe not _everything_. Because _she_ isn’t here. 

And so you let your voice continue, you tell her of your work. You tell her of Anya and you laugh for a moment as you recall the three million dollars Anya had informed you about and you think you hear her laugh too. She tells you of Bellamy, always a kind presence when needed, and she tells you of Raven and how her leg still pains her. And you feel guilty, if only for a moment’s time when you think of the friends you’d lost. But you knew it wouldn’t last. Couldn’t last. Not with how things had ended.

You don’t realise how late you’ve talked until the sun sits a bit lower in the sky. Just low enough to shine into your eyes and you startle. You grimace as you move from the couch and you look at the clock resting against the wall. And you think she too must realise how long you’ve talked. And so she sighs once, and you think it weary. Sad and accepting. But you think you hear hope and longing and love. And isn’t that what you feel too?

“I should let you go,” she whispers then and you smile, nod your head and reply, if only because phone calls can’t convey motion.

“I promise I’ll call again,” and you mean it. “I never meant to leave it this long,” and you pause then, let the tears well up once more, but you don’t fight it. You can’t. You think you needed this, and so you continue, “I’m sorry,” and you think you hear her sniffle softly too. “I’m sorry I left,” and as the words leave your mouth, you think you feel a small weight lift from your shoulders. You think you feel the flooding of your emotions soften just a bit.

“It’s ok,” she whispers then, “I understand, Lexa. I really do,” and she pauses, lets the words hang for a moment between you both and you hear her breathe in deeply. You hear her hold the words before she exhales them and you hear her choke through her thoughts once, but she continues and pushes through the lump you are sure sits painfully in her throat. 

“I feel like I lost two daughters that night.” 

And it hurts. 

_It hurts so, so much._

And so you whisper to her once more. 

“I’ll call again. I promise, Abby.”

 

* * *

 

The lights are off when you push Costia back down onto your bed. She had let you vent and rage and cry out your anguish when she returned, when she’d seen that you needed her and she’d soothed you and comforted you and held you when you had broken down. And all the while she’d whispered words of familiarity and comfort.

_I’m not going anywhere, Lexa._

_I’ll be here in the morning._

_I love you._

And when you had reached out to her she’d let you, when you had held her in your arms she’d let you. And when you had descended on her she had let you, had held her hands in your hair and had loved you as much as you had loved her.

And for a while you could forget. Could forget the pain and the anguish and the guilt that lived within you. And when she had broken for you she had dug her nails into your skin. And you had embraced it.

 

* * *

 

You wake to the steady thumping of your heart and the softness of flesh against you. And you know you won’t sleep. You know you can’t sleep and so you lie in the dark, your naked chest rising slowly and you trace the light as it moves lazily across her skin. 

And you know you shouldn’t think of Clarke. Not when Costia rests besides you and not when you had spent hours with her. But you do. And you find yourself wondering where she found herself. And you hope. And you pray that wherever she is, that she is happy. But above all this? Above the constant upheaval of your emotions you think it hurts. You think It hurts so, so much.

You think it always will.

And so you pull yourself from the tangle of limbs carefully, always guilty in your disturbance. And you pull on a careful jumper before you drift softly across the bitter floor towards the bedroom door. It’s only a short, quiet moment before you reach the kitchen but you think it lasts a long, painful eternity. 

You let the water boil softly. You let the steam burn your skin as you peer into it and you let the heat of the mug scold your hands as you lift it to your lips. And you know you won’t find sleep again so you creep tenderly to the window and you let the light of the outside street wash over you, let it blind your eyes for a moment and then you settle, you sit by the window and let the world outside pass you by.

It’s quiet, comforting and soothing, and you think you enjoy the changing of the lights. You enjoy the red in all its anger and anguish and warning. You enjoy the caution of the yellow. You enjoy the warmth and the kindness and the soft touch you feel it gives to those that pass it. And you enjoy the Green. You enjoy the bright life you think it must live and you enjoy the neon as it sears itself into your mind. And you enjoy the cycle. If only because you know what happens next. And you know that there are no surprises.

_Red — Yellow — Green._

You think you’re tired of surprises. 

 

* * *

 

You aren’t sure how long you sit by the window, the cold of the floor seeping itself into your legs. And you see the moon that still hangs lonesome in the nights sky and you still see the lonely cars that speed below and you still see the soft feathers of the clouds that drift through the dark of a distant sky. 

And you hear her. You hear the soft patter of her feet and you recognise the careful rhythm that stills behind you. And so you don’t turn when you feel her kneel behind you and you don’t turn when she wraps her arms around you. And when she kisses your neck softly you lean into it. You let her know you appreciate it and you let her know you love it. You let her know you love her.

And you think she deserves better. 

You think she deserves better than someone who longs for the ghost of what once existed. 

A memory of what no longer is remembered.

“Thank you,” you whisper then and she hears you. She hears the words you can’t say. The words you shouldn’t say, “for everything,” and you pause, let your eyes close and lean further into her embrace, “for staying,” your eyes open and you turn to face her, “for understanding,” and so you look into her eyes and she smiles softly back.

“Anything for you,” she whispers, “I only want you to be happy.”


	3. Chapter 3

_“Oh, fuck, don’t stop,” you whimper when her fingers press deeper._

_“Here?” And it comes breathless and eager and you nod again._

_“Yeah,” and you’re sure you make a much less dignified noise than you should when she gives another hard press, and you whimper her name softly, letting it fall from your lips._

_She looks up at you then, the blue of her eyes dancing in the light, “I can’t believe you’re legs are still sore from running,” and she laughs as she continues running her hands down your thigh, the muscle aching terribly, “I did tell you that you’d regret trying to get home before the package was delivered,” and she chuckles as you wince, her fingers digging into a particularly painful knot._

_“It’s not my fault. They sent an email. And it was supposed to be a surprise,” and you try and glare at her, level your chin and pin her with a stern look. But you’re sure it doesn’t work when she smirks softly, letting her fingers smooth over your leg._

_“So…” she pauses, bites her lips, “what’d you get me?” and she looks up at you through her lashes, lets her hair fall around her face._

_“That won’t work,” you hiss out as she again pushes hard into your protesting muscle, “It’s supposed to be a surprise,” you say again and you see her roll her eyes and let out a huff, her hair blowing with the exhalation._

_“You ruin everything,” and a pout graces her lips before her tongue pokes out with laughter in her eyes despite the tight grip she still holds around your upper leg._

_“That’s why you love me,” and as you look up at her she turns her head briefly, bites her lip softly before she looks to you again._

_“Yeah,” She smiles gently then, the sun shining fiercely in her eyes, “I do.”_

 

* * *

 

You hear the soft patter of rain, you hear the drops as they creep their way down your bedroom window and you think you hear the soft rolling of thunder in the distance. And it’s cold. Your ears feel cold and you think your face freezes for a moment and so you roll over, you roll closer to the warmth that shares your bed and you press close to it. And you linger for only a moment, only enough to fully wake and then you open your eyes. The soft light of a soon to be dawn touches briefly across Costia’s shoulder and you smile when your eyes fall upon her face, peaceful in slumber and you enjoy the way the sheets lie against her, you enjoy the way they mould to the curve of her bosom and you think that if you squint, if you try just a bit you can see _her_. You think you can see the softer curve of her waist and the slope of her shoulder and the rise of her breast and you think if you let your imagination take hold you can even picture the blonde of her hair as it crowns her face. But you can’t. She isn’t here anymore and so you turn, and it hurts. It still stings and lingers within you. 

And when you close your eyes for a moment and try to hold onto the memory, however faint it grows, you hear the whisper in the back of your mind. You hear the question that still lingers, you hear the truth and you know the confession that still lives within your heart,

_Where’d you go?_

_I miss you._

_I still love you, Clarke._

 

* * *

 

You let the sheets slide from your body and you let the cold of the morning air prickle your skin. And when your feet touch the cool floor you let out a soft gasp and you think that you should be used to this routine, should be used to the dark of the outside still lingering. So you find your way by the small warmth of a desk lamp and you dress yourself quickly. You feel the tightness of your underwear as it hugs the curve of your waist and you grimace softly at the pull of your leggings and when you pull on your top, when you feel it hug your chest you think it settles your heart and eases your mind and keeps you steady.

It’s a short walk down the flight of stairs. It’s a quick wait at the lights, your feet shuffling with the cold, an awkward dance in their attempt to heat your cooling body and then you let your feet take you. You let them strum against the pavement and you let the cool air chill your lungs and so you let yourself forget. 

You nod quietly at Gustus as you pass him, and you let your eyes wander over the park as you race by. You think you see the drops of rain that still linger a moment longer than they should on the grass and you think you feel the cool mist that still clings too close to the trees and you think yourself a fool to run when it so cold out. But you do so anyway — you would always do so. You run your first lap, your legs warming and your muscles a soothing stretch that takes you further and further. 

And you’ve always liked the park and its circular shape. You’ve always liked the circle you run, always the same and always predictable. You even like the trees, some large and solitary, quiet guardians that watch. And there’s even smaller, younger trees, ones that are expressive as they dance easily with the rustling of the wind. And as your feet continue to push you forward you see a woman who sits lonely and quiet on a weathered bench. And you think you see _her_. You think you see _her_ in the blonde of her hair, a soft rose in the morning sun and you think you see _her_ in the gentle slope of her shoulder as she holds a sketchpad in her arms and you think you see _her_ in the furrow of her brow. And you know you see _her_ as her hand moves softly over the page, a small pencil held comfortably, familiar and constant in her left hand. And you remember.

 

* * *

 

_It’s cold. It’s rainy and the weather sucks. You don’t even know why you chose photography over the winter break. But you do know. It was easy. A first year subject and you didn’t mind the extra credit. But you think you can still resent, still grumble and protest the assignment._

_You find yourself walking through the park. Quiet and void of life — and really, who would have been dumb enough to walk around when it was raining? Other than yourself. Probably no one. You think you walk for minutes. Ten? Twenty? You don’t care. But you look for something. Anything that you think would satisfy the requirements and so you keep walking, keep letting your feet take you where they wish and when you round a corner, when you come across an open field, just a few trees dotting the area, you see a lonesome figure, hunched and furiously running an arm over a pad. And you think it strange. You think it unique and you think it just right. And so you quickly drop down to a knee, hide yourself behind a tree and you pull out your camera. And you think you can regret the voyeurism of what you do at a later stage. At a stage when you have your final grade and so you point. You aim. And you click. And you gasp and grimace and curse when the flash goes off._

_Fuck._

_You see the figure look up at the flash then. You see them scan towards you. And you see their brows furrow._

_You see her._

_And so you stand, a slow, measured beat and you raise your hand softly, awkwardly. And you call out to her, “Sorry,” and you grimace when you see her eyes narrow. “I — I wasn’t —I, uhh,” you swallow hard and you know how it must look, “It’s for an assignment,” you finish lamely. And now there’s space between you, but only a few paces. Only a small arm’s throw and you see the blonde of her hair and you see the blue of her eyes and you think you see the water that clings to her lashes delicately despite the fierceness that you think lives within her eyes._

_“I can delete it,” you offer than, already looking down to the camera in your hands, already scrolling through the gallery, but she cuts you off, lets her voice carry through the space between you._

_“What’s it for?” and you think her voice gentle and firm. And you smile at the rasp that clings to it for just a moment._

_“An assignment,” and her eyebrow raises softly,_

_“You said that already.”_

_“Photography,” you offer then, your hand hanging awkwardly between you both, “I needed to capture a_ moment in time, _” and she laughs at that. It’s quiet and soothing but you think you relax for a brief beat of your heart. If only because she might not think you someone to be avoided._

_“Clarke,” she says then, giving you a soft smile. And your eyebrows twitch together. And she must see your confusion because she continues quickly, “my name.”_

_“Oh,” it comes out awkward and dumb. And you think for a quiet second._

_Isn’t that a boy’s name?_

_But you don’t voice it. Instead you roll the sound in your mouth and you smile, “Clarke,” you think you like it._

_And so you hold out your hand, and when she meets it with her own you let your fingers close around hers and you smile once more._

_“Lexa.”_

 

* * *

 

You let your eyes follow her as you race past, and you think her head looks up, you think her eyes catch yours and you think she looks so, so familiar. But you shake the thoughts and you know it not possible and you think her eyes follow your retreating figure as you let your feet take you where they wish.

You come to a heaving stop, your lungs taking powerful gulps and you try and organise your thoughts. You try and make sense of what you think you see and you know it can’t be. You know it shouldn’t be but you think you’ve seen her three times. You think you’ve seen her hair as it glows a soft amber in the morning sun and you think you’ve seen the blue of her eyes in their intensity and you think you’ve felt her presence. 

It takes you longer than it should to find your way home and you think your thigh pains you a moment more than it should. But you ignore it, you let your mind wander and you try and forget. You rise up the first flight of steps, your thoughts still drifting and you rise up the second, your thigh still aching and when you reach your door you pause. You stop for a quiet moment and you let your breathing steady and you let the shake in your hands ease. 

And you think you must be going crazy. You think you must be seeing things. And you think it is _this_ month that makes it hurt more, that makes it sting more and cut deeper than it should. 

But shouldn’t you be used to this by now?

 

* * *

 

The water beats down on your skin leaving behind a red, burning bruise and you think it soothing and constant and you think it grounding in its intensity. You still grimace when your fingers trace the jagged of your thigh. You still grimace when you catch the red of it in your reflection but you ignore it. What more could you do? So you let your hands continue to rub in the soap and you think the ache lessens for a moment. And you stay for a still second as the water burns away your morning run. And you let the water wash away the soap and the shampoo and when it stings your eyes you embrace it, you let it linger and you think yourself happy. You think yourself content knowing that you still feel. That you still _remember_ to feel _._  

You bring the razor to your leg then and you feel the soft scrape as it glides down and you think you enjoy the normalcy of it. If only because it lets you _feel_ normal. If only for a moment’s time. 

You feel it then. It’s a soft, sharp scrape and you hiss out a curse and you grimace for a moment as you see the red drip and wend its way down your leg. And your eyes follow the trail as it mixes and dilutes with the beating of the water and you remember. You remember the blood. You remember it spreading and you remember reaching out. You remember trying to hold it back, trying to keep it at bay. But you couldn’t. It wouldn’t stop and you think you can feel it ooze and worm its way through your fingers and so you clench your eyes tight. You shake your head and you fall to your knees quietly under the stream of the shower. 

You don’t think you want to remember anymore. 

You think you stay kneeling under the shower for a long stretch of the sun’s path through the morning sky. You think you must when you hear a soft knock on the bathroom door and when you hear your name called out in question you rise, you quickly rinse yourself of the soap that still lingers and you call out softly, brokenly.

 _I’m ok._  

But you think she knows you aren’t.

You think you know you aren’t.

But you’ve grown used to lying to yourself.

 

* * *

 

You sit at your desk, the sun a shining wall that backs you and you think it overpowering and you think it dramatic in its intensity. And you think it annoying, if only because Anya looks at you for a moment, her eyes glaring sharply and her face angled from the light. And then she rises, a swift stride to your window and then she pulls the blinds closed, the room darkening instantly, a cool, colder room raising to replace the warmth of the sun.

“Daniels won’t be a problem anymore,” you say then, already rifling through the latest report held in your hands and you see Anya nod, you see her fingers tap quickly against the armrest of the chair she settled herself in.

“Good,” she hums, eyes looking at you for a moment. And you notice them linger and stare and you think you see her debate a question, you think you see the argument flicker within her eyes, and when she opens her mouth next you think that maybe she will voice her question, will voice what bothers her, “I didn’t tell the client,” she says, and you think it wasn’t what still lingers, “they never knew about the loss,” and you look pointedly at her.

“How much did they end up making?” and you chase the number through your mind for a brief second, “Twelve?” 

“Almost thirteen,” she says then, eyes rolling, “minus the three,”

You continue working through the report, quiet words passed between you both, of a gentle prod in the right direction or a stern rebuttal of an idea not worth pursuing. And you notice her look to you often, you see her eyes linger longer than usual and you feel the twitch in her body as she shifts an uncomfortable dance in her seat. And so you look her in the eye and you hold it when her eyes meet yours.

She takes a quiet sip from her coffee, a grimace playing across her face when the cold of it reaches her lips. And as she replaces the mug she sighs, lets the sound linger between you both for a painful moment, “Something’s bothering you,” and her eyebrow raises sharply, and so you merely shrug, a lone shoulder rising for a moment.

You contemplate ignoring her. You contemplate shifting focus and changing topics and you think she would let it be, you think she would leave it, merely another long battle left to perish between you both but you think she deserves answers. If only because. If only because what? She cares? 

Maybe that’s enough. 

Shouldn’t it be enough?

You open your mouth for a moment, and you think of the blonde haired woman you saw earlier in the park. You think of the blonde you think you saw standing before your office building.

And so you let your fears be voiced, “I saw Clarke,” you whisper and you feel the shuddering of your breath. You feel the words as they foul your mouth and you think your hands must shake, must tremble and so you grip your pen tightly, you let it dig into your palm and you let your eyes gaze unsure and unsteady into Anya’s. 

“What?” You see her eyes darken and you grimace when she leans forward, when her body leans closer. 

“I saw _her,”_ you whisper again and you think it hurts. You think it digs painfully into your chest and buries underneath your mind and takes hold, takes root. 

“She isn’t _here,”_ Anya whispers in turn. “She isn’t _here_ anymore _,_ Lexa,” she pauses, lets the words sink in, and she leans closer, her voice rising with each utterance. “ _You._ _know. That.”_  

_You know._

_You do._

_But it still hurts._

You want to scream those words. You want them to be true. You want them to be a lie and a falsehood and a prayer. 

“I’m going crazy,” and you think it comes out broken and defeated, tinged with a sadness not supposed to exist and you think your heart clenches and cools beneath your chest. “She’s not here,” you know the truth of your words. “She hasn’t been here for years,” and as the last of your words escape you think you break, you think your lips tremble and your chin quivers and your eyes glisten. 

And it’s not fair. It’s not fair and you think the world a cruel, heartless foe. But you think it a truth. A cruel truth, but a truth nonetheless and so you drag your hand across your face. You let your fingers dig into your cheek and you feel the wetness that clings to your palm.

But you feel it then. You feel the steady pressure across your shoulder and so you lean your head against her arm, let it rest softly for a moment and you let yourself feel. If only for a short time.

And so Anya whispers to you, “I’m sorry,” but you shake your head, you don’t think she has a reason to apologise, a reason to feel sorry or to be sorry.

“It’s ok,” you wipe your eyes quickly once more before looking to Anya and you see the doubt that lingers. 

“It’s ok,” you say it more sure, more confident and firmer. And perhaps you think you should tell Costia. Doesn’t she deserve to know? Doesn’t she deserve better? 

You think she does.

You think she will always deserve better. 

And so you say once more, your eyes steady again.

“It’s ok.”

 

* * *

 

You leave earlier. You leave knowing Anya can handle your few hour’s absence and so you find yourself in an empty home. You find yourself in a cool, dark room and you think it strange. You think it foreign and alien. You don’t think you’ve ever come home, ever been home before Costia has. 

And you think it’s guilt that lives, a steady beat within your heart.

The lights flicker on as you move through the rooms, and you leave your shoes, a lazy place resting against your side of the bed and you leave your shirt, careless and crumpled at the foot of the bed and you leave your pants, a small pile by the bedroom door. 

And you don’t recognise it. You don’t recognise the curve of your waist or the lines of your stomach. You don’t even recognise the shape of your legs. You think you’ve changed. You think yourself harder. Less kind and less unknowing of the harshness of the world. And you think grief and loss and running an endless, stupid, senseless routine will do that. But isn’t it enough that you remember? Isn’t it enough that you can remember? 

Perhaps you can remember for you both. 

You think you must.

Aren’t you already? 

 

* * *

 

You lie back on your bed, the soft of the sheets wrapping you in a cold embrace and you let your eyes close and you let your mind wander and you think you feel your hands twitch by your sides and you think yourself cruel and selfish when you think of blonde and when you think of blue and when you think of her voice and her smile. And you think yourself pathetic, defeated and ruined when your hands wander. You think yourself sad and lonely when you feel your breath hitch and your pulse thrum and you think yourself lost when you let the tears fall. 

And as the soft fog of sleep creeps ever closer, ever sure and certain in its touch you think your mind whispers out.

_I still remember._

_I still love you._

_Clarke._

 

* * *

 

You wake to a gentle touch on your shoulder and a soft presence by your side. And you hear the whispered words, you feel the soft fingers and the soothing hum.

“Wake up Lexa, dinner’s ready.”

_Clarke?_

Your eyes open and you see her gaze, tender, soft and understanding. Accepting.

“Dinner’s ready,” It’s whispered again, a soft smile in her eyes, her hand soothing your shoulder, “put some clothes on,” she smiles again, her eyes flickering over your body and you think your mouth a sheepish thing, “You’ll catch a cold,” she finishes, already passing you warm pants and a loose shirt. 

It’s simple, tasteful and warming. And you think you’ve always enjoyed her cooking, always enjoyed the simplest of dishes she makes and the softness of her company. And you think yourself guilty when you look into her eyes and you think yourself guilty when her hand lingers a moment against yours or when she smiles softly, her lips pulling up in a gentle curve. 

And perhaps you should tell her. You should tell her your troubles, your demons and your visions. Doesn’t she deserve to know?

You let your mouth open once, and you think it closes, you think it kills the words before they have a chance but she must see the uncertainty in your eyes and she must feel the words you try to say so she pauses, lets her eyes linger on you and she waits. 

“I’m not sleeping well,” you whisper then, “I — I,” you pause, a shaky exhale frees itself, “not as well as usual,” and you grimace at the all too familiar memory of waking her with the rising of the sun.

“It’s ok,” you think her beautiful when she smiles softly.

“It’s this month,” you whisper and you think you feel your breath begin to break against your chest once more, “I just—” you think you choke on the air that fills your lungs, if only for a moment, “It’s hard,” you finish, and you curse your weakness. You curse your memory. You curse being able to remember. 

“I’m sorry,” it’s quiet, broken and you think you could never say those words enough, never really tell her enough, but she interrupts your quiet thoughts, she lets her body break your mind. And you’re thankful for it. You’re thankful for the quiet hold she takes on your hand and the gentle pressure she gives your fingers.

“It’s ok,” she whispers again and you lean into her, you lean into her neck and you think you let the tears fall. You think you let them soak her top and you think you feel the steady rhythm of her heart as it beats a careful tempo through her veins. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper it again, the sound broken by the quiet hiccups that escape your lips. 

“I’m sorry,” you press your lips to her neck, let the words linger against her skin and you feel the slight tremor in her throat as you press firmer, harder, more desperately.

“I love you,” you let your hand wander, you let it explore and you let it roam a soft, gentle trail. 

“I love you, Costia,” it’s a truth. It’s a pledge and a reassurance. And you think you must smile despite the shine to your eyes and the wetness that clings to your cheeks. You think you must smile when you feel her breath quicken and her muscles tighten and her pulse race a frantic, erratic beat. You know you smile when you feel her unwind, when you feel her clench and tremor in your arms and so you whisper to her once more, if only to reassure yourself. 

“I love you, Costia.” 

_I love you, Clarke._

 

* * *

 

_You wake to a quiet, shrill, painful sound. It’s a harsh thing. An evil thing. And you know you should fear it. You know you should run and flee. But you can’t move your legs, you can’t move your arms and you feel an ache that lingers and claws its way into your bones and muscles and you think you know what it means. You know what it means and you think the memories must come crashing through your mind._

_It’s quiet, broken, and helpless._

_Please don’t leave me._

_Your eyes open to a room, too white, too sharp and too dark. Your eyes open to a solitude that hangs cruelly and too calm around you._

_You search then, if only with your eyes, if only for reassurances needed and pain felt. And your eyes dart left and right and you think yourself dizzy and sick and tired. You think you don’t like surprises and so you call out her name, but it’s broken, hoarse and dry to your ears._

_Clarke?_

_You wait for a response and you wait, and wait._

_Clarke?_

_You choke on the sound and you splutter and curse and claw out with your mind._

_Clarke?_

_Your door opens, and your heart clenches and your mind freezes and you think yourself alone. You think yourself broken and helpless._

_Where’s Clarke?_

_You ask and it must sound desperate. It must sound horrid and wounded._

_Where’s Clarke?_

_You think you cry, and you think you rage and scream and break under the truth._

_Where’s Clarke?_

_You think you know._

_Where’s Clarke?_

_You think you stop liking this surprise._

_Where’s Clarke?_

_She’s not here anymore._

 


	4. Chapter 4

_“What do you think?”_

_“It’s nice. Simple,” and you see her eyes roll._

_“It’s ours,” she says, “it’s better than nice. It’s better than simple.”_

_“Yeah,” you think you smile then, let your lips curve and you think your eyes must shine when she turns to you and leans in closer._

_But you don’t think the apartment compares. Not when Clarke stands by your side._

_“You’re lucky I like you, because this reaction is not what I wanted,” she presses her lips to yours, wraps her arms around your waist tightly and pulls you to her._

_“It’s beautiful,” you say then, your eyes lingering on her and you think you smile brightly, you think your heart steady and sure in its rhythm, “You’re beautiful,” you like the way her hair glows, a radiance and brilliance that lingers. You like the way her eyes shine and dance in the sunlight._

_And so you add softly, “I’d be happy as long as you’re with me,” and you like the way she blushes, you like the way she bites her lip softly and the way her lips quirk up carefully._

_She leans into you further, lets her heart beat against your chest and you think yourself complete._

_“It’s nice not having to share with Raven anymore, I don’t think I could do another three years of her antics,” and you chuckle softly as Clarke sighs against your chest, her hair tickling your chin._

_“We’ve got our whole lives ahead of us, Clarke. There’s no rush,” and she looks up, her head tucked under your chin and you see the flash of blue and you press your lips to her forehead quietly._

_“I’m glad we finally did this,” she smiles then, placing a lingering kiss against the rise of your bosom._

_And so you lift her chin up and kiss her again, a chaste, quick, calm press of lips that lingers for a moment._

_“Me too.”_

_And as you hold her gently against your body you let your hand thumb carefully over the small box in your pocket, you feel the soft warmth of the velvet and you think it soothing and calming._

_And you think not yet._

_But soon._

 

* * *

 

It’s nearing nightfall when the door opens for you, and a smile finds itself on your lips when Costia brushes a hand over your shoulder softly and leads you inside. You let your eyes wander briefly as she walks back to your bedroom, the soft light of the world outside casting her in a quiet shadow that blends kindly around her body. And as you follow her to the room you share she turns briefly, a simple quirk of her mouth before she calls out.

“Gustus insisted we come for the opening,” and you smile for a moment as your eyes follow the sway of her hips, “I was just about to start getting ready.” 

“I know,” you reply, already loosening the buttons of your shirt, “I got a text,” and you let your shirt fall smoothly onto the backrest of a chair as you pass.

You follow her into the bathroom, and you let your eyes follow the curve of her body as she undresses before you, her clothes falling into a lazy pile at her feet and she smiles at you in the mirror, her eyebrow rising in question and you think you feel your lips curve for a moment and so you let your clothes meet hers on the tile beneath your feet. 

“How long do we have?” you ask as you let the heat of the shower warm the room, your hand resting comfortably under the stream, and you think your heart already beating quickly and when you turn Costia meets your question with a smirk.

“Long enough.” 

 

* * *

 

“I thought you could wear this,” and you turn to her and see a questioning look in her eyes as she holds up a dress in her hands. It’s a simple one — black, that hangs just above your knees. You’ve worn it before and you know it flatters your body and you know Costia likes it. And so you smile, let your hand linger against hers as you take it from her and you move to stand besides her, the mirror resting quietly before you both.

You let your towel fall then and you step out from it, a small ache lingering in your thigh and when your eyes trace the jagged wound you think a grimace falls across your face for a moment, and you think the scar unsightly, a blemish and a reminder. Costia must follow your eyes, must sense your discomfort though because she moves to stand behind you, lets her hands rest comfortably on your hips and she presses herself against your back in comfort. And so you look at her through the mirror, gratitude living in your eyes. 

“Does it hurt?” and it’s a quiet whisper, it’s caring and understanding. 

But you shake your head softly and you lie, “No,” you let your eyes linger a moment longer before you turn to face her, “Not really, I’ve just been running too much. It’ll fade soon.” 

“We don’t have to go.” 

“No, I want to,” you kiss her briefly, “I want to,” and so she nods, a quiet _ok_ falling from her lips. 

You step into the dress, let the sting of your thigh live a familiar moment and when you bend down, when your fingers grasp at the dress Costia places a hand on your shoulder, lets her fingers squeeze for a moment. 

“Let me,” she whisper, her eyes caring and you smile. You think your heart a steady, careful presence in your chest and you rest your hand on her shoulder as she kneels before you and places a soft kiss to your thigh. And she stands then, pulling the dress up carefully, the soft fabric a feather against your skin and you turn to the mirror once more, letting her fasten the dress behind your back. 

And so you both stand, a soft red hanging from her shoulders, your own elegant and simple and she presses her lips a quick moment against your exposed shoulder, lets her eyes hold yours in the reflection before she whispers out. 

“You look beautiful.”

 

* * *

 

The drive isn’t far. Just a short moment and so you let your eyes focus on the cars that chase by and you let the soothing reds and yellows and greens you pass comfort you and ground you. The sky sits lowly in the sky, the dark of the night a careful blanket that quiets the streets and stills the night and you think it peaceful and calm. You pass the bar then, now more restaurant, the deep orange of the front a welcoming colour and you already see the people seated inside, you already see it busy and living and thriving and you think you smile for a moment, you think you remember years past and you think you remember the blonde of her hair and the smile that would sit comfortably in her eyes. 

_You remember her._

 

* * *

 

_The street swims in the soft light of the pale moon and you step closer to Clarke as the breeze chills you both briefly and you let your eyes linger on her for a long second as she wraps an arm around your waist. And when she turns to you in search of warmth, when her eyes settle comfortably on yours and when she lets her mouth quirk up at the corners you think yourself lucky. You think yourself thankful and awed._

_You think you enjoy the light that plays in her eyes and the glow of her hair as it dances in the moon light and you know you feel the erratic, frantic beat that lives a constant companion in your chest._

_And so you smile and you think it must be lopsided, must be foolish._

_“What?” she says then, her head tilting for a moment in contemplation and you are sure your eyes must betray your thoughts. Must betray the beating of your heart and the way your mind races. And so you lean closer, pull her to the side of the street and press yourself to her and you smile when she gasps, you smile when her hand grips your waist to steady herself and you smile when your lips meet hers. It’s short, a startling motion and you think you smile when the realisation dawns upon you._

_“What was that for?” she whimpers then as you break the kiss, letting your forehead rest against hers, a small distance between you both but you merely shrug, merely let your smile live free and happy._

_“I just wanted to,” you whisper to her, and you enjoy the way her eyes close and the way she leans forward once again, and you enjoy the way her fingers grip just a moment tighter._

_You think you like this realisation._

_And so you break the embrace you have, a smirk playing across your lips and you take her hand in yours again, guiding her back down the street until you come to your destination._

_“It looks nice,” she smiles, her eyes turning up to look at the sign, and she squeezes your hand softly._

_“Anya said it was good,” perhaps you will have to thank her for the recommendation tomorrow._

_You can see people sitting in warm booths, you can see people sharing a quiet drink and enjoying the company of friends, and you think it simple, charming and happy and so you squeeze her hand again and walk to the door, and as you reach it you stretch out with your hand and push it open quickly and you step aside letting Clarke in first and she smiles again, “always so polite,” she laughs as you follow her inside._

_And as you let the door close behind you, as you let the warmth of the bar envelop you and as you let your eyes meet hers you think you know what you feel._

_You think you love Clarke._

 

* * *

 

You let your eyes linger on Costia’s over the glass you bring to your lips and you smile at her and let it live comfortably on your lips as she continues telling you of her students, and you enjoy the movements of her hands as she paints with her words a vividness and a liveliness that you can imagine. And when she tells you of the antics one young student went through, all in the name of giving her a flower, you laugh and you let it sit comfortably between you both. You don’t blame him though. You think Costia beautiful and charming and caring and you are sure she holds the affections of many teenaged students.

“Anya says you lost three million,” she says then, breaking your quiet revelry and you grimace for a moment, let the memory creep back to the forefront of your mind and you let a heavy sigh leave your lips, but despite that you smile and let your eyes linger on hers as she returns your smile with one of her own, her hand reaching out to hold yours.

“A client did,” you roll your eyes then, “It wasn’t good,” and you laugh and shake your head as she pretends to gasp, as she holds her hand to her chest in mock horror.

“Oh, no!” Her eyes widen in shock and you see the laughter that sits happy and content in her eyes and you think you could lose yourself in the depths of them and you know you enjoy the easy flow that lives between you both, “what happened next?” she whispers, leaning closer, her voice a quiet exhale and she looks around conspiratorially.   

And perhaps for a moment, with Costia before you, with her eyes meeting your gaze and her hand held comfortably in your own you can forget the pain. And it’s with this thought that you squeeze her hand gently, and you bring her fingers to your lips and kiss them for a quiet moment.

“You look beautiful,” you whisper then and you think you enjoy the way her cheeks redden, you think the colour sits happy and content. You think you enjoy the way her foot nudges yours softly under the table and you think you enjoy the way her cheeks dimple as the smile spreads fully across her face. And when you let yourself look into her eyes, when you count the soft freckles that sit across her shoulders and her nose and the way her hair curls around her face, when you feel the strumming in your heart, you know what you feel. 

“I love you, Costia.” 

 

* * *

 

It’s easy and quiet, the rest of the night passing in laughter. Gustus gives you a friendly wave from across his restaurant, and you smile at him, and you see Costia blush as he gives you both a wink and a thumbs up and you see her glare playfully at you quickly as you smirk, and you are sure she reads the thoughts that quickly visit your mind when you feel her foot nudge your leg.

Dinner’s simple, beautiful and warm and Costia excuses herself as the plates are taken away, and so you let yourself think for a moment, let your eyes wander over the changes that have been made and it’s just a brief pull in your stomach, just a quiet tension you feel build as you take in the soft lights and the tables that now sit around you, new and different, no longer matching memories of years past. And perhaps it’s bittersweet and saddening, longing and wistful as you realise that time has left you in the past, that time has left _her_ in the past. But you think that you should remember. Perhaps you can keep the memory alive for a little while longer. If only because you don’t wish to let got just yet. 

And when you think you feel yourself begin to spiral, when you think your thoughts begin to turn to darker thoughts you think you recognise the feeling. 

Maybe you won’t ever stop loving her. 

But you think Costia helps. 

You know she does. 

Your eyes continue their lazy path, you take in the paintings that hang comfortably against the wall and your eyes take in the reflections of the lights from the windows and your eyes take in the people who walk past outside the restaurant, their heads ducked to avoid the chill of the night air. You let your eyes linger for a moment on a couple, a man and a woman, or maybe more boy and girl and you think you smile at the awkward dance that they play as they move about each other and you think it happy, full of life. You let your eyes take them in for a moment longer before you see the soft glow of blonde hair that walks past and you think you smile for a moment, if only a bittersweet thing at a long gone memory, you see a dog that walks its owner and you think you laugh for a moment and you—

_Blonde._

Your eyes snap back to the retreating figure and you look. You feel the beat of your heart and the breaths that freeze and linger painfully in your lungs and you stare. You stare and your eyes sting and your eyes water. You take in her retreating figure, you take in the way her hair falls, you take in the way her shoulders hunch and you recognise it. You recognise the motion of her walk and you recognise the way her hands clutch painfully at the jacket that shields her from the cold.

You stare and you think it must be horrified, wretched, full of anguish and cursed. 

_Clarke._

You rush from your seat, you ignore the clanging as it falls and you push past a waiter.

_Clarke._

You curse your heels as you trip briefly, your hand rushing out and grasping a stranger by the shoulder and you hiss an apology before you run to the door, and you feel your heart protest, you feel the tears that spill and you feel the burn in your lungs and the pain in your thigh and— and — and you scream her name. 

_Clarke._

You push through the door and you ignore the biting of the cold and you ignore the shocked looks and you scream her name and it must be broken and helpless and ugly.

_Clarke._

You see her stop. 

You see her freeze.

_Clarke._

Your feet push you forward and you feel the bite of the pavement as you kick off your heels and you chase her. 

 _Clarke_.

She rounds a corner, she vanishes from your sight and you scream her name again, a plea and a prayer and it must sound desperate. It must _be_ desperate. And you round the corner. 

And she’s gone.

And you scream her name out into the night, but when all you receive in answer is the chilling silence of a memory you think you fall to your knees, you think they must be bloodied and bruised. You think you must stay outside for an eternity, your thoughts unfocused, your eyes wet with tears and your body shivering in the cold that winds itself around you. 

And it hurts. It burns and you want to rage and scream out into the night. And you don’t realise that your shoulders shake and your chest heaves and your voice hoarse until you feel rough hands grip your shoulders, until you feel a warm embrace that lifts you to your feet. 

And you know you cry and sob and break down when Gustus whispers words in your ear. When he rubs soothingly over your back and when he sits you down on a bench. And you know yourself broken and heartless and cruel when you hear Costia calling your name. You know yourself devastated and selfish when you hear the frantic beat of her feet and you know yourself lost when Costia leans down in front of you and clutches your face in her hands and whispers words to you. 

But you don’t _hear_ her. 

You don’t _see_ her. 

You don’t _feel_ her. 

All you hear, all you see and all you feel is the glow of blonde hair and the kindness that shines as the light dances within blue eyes. 

All you know in this cruel, cold instant is Clarke. 

And so you shatter. 

 

* * *

 

You don’t remember walking up the stairs. You don’t remember Gustus supporting your weight or Costia whispering words of comfort, words of love and hurt. You don’t remember the worried words that Gustus leaves with, nor do you remember the water of the bath or the soft hands that undress you and force you into the searing water. 

You know you saw her. 

You know you saw Clarke. 

You know she is here, somewhere. 

Out in the world.

And when you find yourself in bed. When you feel Costia wrap her arms around you and whisper words that should sooth and calm and comfort, you don’t remember. 

You don’t even remember when sleep takes hold. 

All you feel is the hollow ache and the heaviness that sits within. 

 

* * *

 

_“Fight Clarke,” and it comes out a splutter, and you taste the tang of the blood that drips from your lip, “Please — Please, don’t give up. I’m here. Fight for us,” and you cough and you choke past the blood. “Please. Stay with me.” And you feel the warm drip that claws down your face, leaving a wet, haphazard trail across your cheeks and you want to reach out, but your arm is pinned, braced against the door and your body. But when you struggle and rage you can reach out with your fingers, can close your hand around hers and you can feel the blood pool and slip through your grasp and you think your heart breaks and you think yourself lost._

_“I’m sorry,” she chokes out, her own tears glistening sideways across her cheek, her hair hanging damp and bloodied across her forehead._

_You see the pain in her eyes. You see the acceptance. “I don’t think I can anymore,” and you see her lips quiver painfully and you see her eyes close softly, and you want to rage and shake and scream out._

_But all you do. All you can manage. All you can comprehend is the pain and the heart break and the cold feeling that traps you and seals the beating of your heart in your chest._

_But you refuse to accept it and so you thrash in your seat, you feel the burn of metal that slices through your leg and you scream out for her to hold on, that they’ll be here soon._

_And when her eyes flutter open for just a moment, for just enough to look to you once more she smiles, if only with her eyes, and she whispers out to you._

_“It’s ok, Lexa. You’ll be ok… I love you.”_

_Her hand squeezes once more, her fingers a tight, tight embrace around yours._

_But when her eyes close, when her fingers slacken in your grasp?_

_You break and you shatter._

_Please don’t leave me._

 

* * *

 

You wake with a shuddering of breath and an anguish that burns beneath your skin.

And you hate it.

You despise what still lingers. What still threatens your waking moments. 

And so you lie for a still minute. You let your breathing even out, at least as much as it ever will and then you sit carefully in your bed, a guilt always lingering within you as you leave Costia’s side. And when you think you can steady yourself enough, you let your feet push you to the door, the cold of the night air biting into your naked flesh and you wince as your thigh protests the jerky movements.

Passing the window you can still see the lingering moon that sits high and quiet in the dark of the sky and so you take yourself to the kitchen, you let the water boil and you hold the cup as it burns your fingers. If only to burn away the feeling of blood. If only to replace the feeling of life slipping through your fingers.

You find yourself before the window, a blanket draped across your shoulders and you stare out at the traffic lights. You stare out at the changing of the colours and you stare and seethe at the red. You burn at the colour in all its intensity. In all its warning and anger. You stare at the yellow. You feel it sink into your skin and burrow and twist within you. And you think you hate it. You think you hate the time it lingers before turning to green. And you stare at the green. And you think it not fair. You think it cruel and evil and broken and false. 

You think you stare out the window for an age. For a long, cruel passing of time. And as your eyes shift from car to car as they pass you want to rage at them. You want to shout and scream and ask _why_. 

You think your eyes catch a reflection in the window then. And when you let your eyes linger, focusing on the image you think it unrecognisable. You think the green that looks back haunted and broken. You think the shadows that live under the eyes hollow, bruised and ugly. 

You just want to forget. You don’t think you want to remember anymore. 

And so you stay sitting, letting the heat of the cup burn away your anger and the cold of the floor chill away your thoughts and when you sit for too long, when you think you isolate yourself for long enough you hear her. You hear the careful steps behind you and you hear the quiet breaths she takes. 

And you hear the whispered memories. You feel the beat of your heart and the nearing of her presence.

And you remember.

 

* * *

 

_You wake to a quiet unfamiliarity. You wake to the quiet beep that rings out too loud in your ears and you wake to the white of walls that blind you and burn your eyes in the dark that you find yourself in. You look around then, and you feel the burn in your thigh, you feel the stiffness in your arm and you feel the pain that still clings cruelly within your body._

_But you ignore it. You ignore the burning and the piercing and you search. You search for her smile and you search for her laugh and you search for the blonde of her hair and the blue of her eyes._

_You search for Clarke._

_You call out her name and it comes out hoarse, broken and rough._

_Clarke?_

_You wait for a response and you wait, and wait._

_Clarke?_

_You choke on the sound and you splutter and curse and claw our with your mind._

_Clarke?_

_Your door opens, and your heart clenches and your mind freezes when you see a woman, the blue of her clothes brutal in their familiarity. And you see the woman who enters behind her. You see the love and the loss and the pain and the hurt that lives within her eyes._

_“Where’s Clarke?” You ask Abby then, and you see her eyes break and you see the devastation that tears you apart._

 

* * *

 

You feel Costia kneel behind you, and you flinch from her touch. You want to flee and run and escape but she wraps her arms around you, holding you steady and firm. And when you feel the press of lips against your shoulder, when you feel her legs embrace you, when you hear the words she whispers, you think you can’t take it anymore. You think you don’t deserve her understanding. 

You don’t think you deserve her.

And so when you feel the tears fall, when you feel the pain that still lives within your heart you embrace it. And you know you must be shaking, must be breaking in front of her but she holds you through it. 

“I’m here, Lexa,” she whispers then, her arms tight around you.

“I’m here,” she repeats again as she moves to sit before you and as she takes your face in her hands you think your lips must be trembling, you think your tears must be falling freely.

“I’m sorry,” and you know it comes out broken. And so you lean into her touch, bury your face into her neck.

“I’m so, so sorry,” You clutch at her then.

“I’m sorry I’m so broken,” you choke on the words and you cling to her, “I don’t deserve you,” and it comes out ragged, your chest heaving and your ribs screaming with each breath, “You deserve better,” and you hold her tight and you think your fingers must dig into her painfully, must be leaving bruises. But she reaches up, lets her hands caress your face softly and she pulls you away for a moment, just long enough that you can look into her eyes and when she is sure you hold her gaze. When she is sure you look at her she smiles softly, and you see understanding. You see acceptance and you see love.

“I love you, Lexa,” she kisses you softly, her thumb brushing away the tears, “I’m here for you,” she presses her forehead against yours, “I only want you to be happy,” and she pauses, lets the words sink in, lets you regain control of your raging mind.

And after quiet moments she whispers out to you, “Come back to bed,” she lets her hand linger against your neck for a moment and then she reaches for your hand, guides you to your feet and holds you steady as she leads you to the room you share. 

But as you near the door, as you near the bed you share with Costia you pause. Your hand firm in hers and you close your eyes. You take in a deep breath and you try and steady the frantic, pained beating in your chest. 

_I only want you to be happy._

Her words ring out in your mind and burrow their way into the beating of your heart so you open your eyes. 

And you think yourself cruel when you see the blonde of her hair that glows carefully in the moonlight.

You pull her to you and kiss her deeply.

You think yourself broken when you see the blue of her eyes that widen in surprise.

You push her to the wall, press yourself against her and bite into her neck softly, let your lips linger and bruise the tender skin you find and you hear her whimper and gasp.

You think yourself selfish when you hear the rasp of her voice that buries itself into your mind.

You turn her around, push her firmly to the wall and close your eyes.

You know yourself destroyed when you let your hands wander, let your fingers burn against her skin.

And when she moans? When she gasps and when she pushes back into you? When you feel her clench around you, and shudder beneath your grasp? 

You think of Clarke.

 

* * *

 

_You run your fingers carefully over hers, and you know you must be crying when you feel the drop that lands on your hand, but you don’t wipe away the tears, you don’t want to. You can’t. Not when she lies before you. Not when all that keeps her breathing is the steady whirring of the machine. Not when at any moment she might fade._

_And so you squeeze her hand softly, you bring yourself as close as you can in the wheelchair._

_“Please wakeup.”_

_You hate the sound of your voice._

_“Please wakeup.”_

_You hate how desperate you sound._

_“Please wakeup.”_

_You hate the soft beep that echoes through the room._

_“Please wakeup.”_

_You just want to see her eyes once more._

_“Please wakeup.”_

_You just want to hear her voice once more._

_Please wakeup._

_I love you, Clarke._


	5. Chapter 5

_Waking is something you’ve come to despise. Each rising of the sun merely a bearer of bad news and you hate it. You think it cruel, unkind and heartless. And so when you feel a gentle hand on your shoulder and the caress of soft words you hold on to the dream you think you must have been living, if only so that the truth will be kept at bay, drifting far out of reach of your waking mind._

_If only for just a few more moments of blissful ignorance._

_“Lexa,” you feel the fingers brush through your hair softly, a quiet press of lips against your forehead, “wake up.”_

_And so you do._

_And as your eyes take in the white of the walls, too dark, too bright and too cruel you think your eyes water, a power of their own, and as you look up to see Abby kneeling by your side you think you feel your heart clench and your chest freeze and when you turn your head and look to the figure lying on the bed you want to thrash out and scream and tear your eyes from their place in your head._

_Clarke lies broken, her hair shaved from the side of her head, bloodied bandages wrapped tightly around where the surgeons had cut and sawed and broken her mind, all in the hope that her brain would cease to swell. You see her face, swollen and broken and you see her arm, a cast holding it steady and safe by her side and you think you cry and shake and destruct when the memories come searing into your mind._

_You know you sob and choke on your breaths when Abby takes you in her arms, ever careful of your own injuries and holds you close, her own tears bleeding with yours._

_“They have to check on Clarke,” she whispers quietly, “just for a moment.” And so you nod, loosen the grip you held on Clarke’s hand through the night and you let Abby wheel you out as nurses file in quietly behind you._

_“I spoke to the lead surgeon when you slept,” she whispers softly, her hands brushing away both your tears, “the doctor said she’d make a full recovery,” Abby continues through both your tears, her eyes hardening to the news you know she so often recounts in her own world as a surgeon, “physically, at least,” and as you see her eyes fall and her lip tremble you brace yourself for the_ but _. You brace yourself for the_ next _._

_“But,” and you think your world crumbles into shards of anguish, “they don’t know when she’ll wake up.”_

_And it breaks you, and as you feel your heart thump in your chest you think it the cruel heat of a too close flame that burns and sears into your flesh, that chars your bones and stings through your veins._

_But you think you must have heard wrong, the words must have been muffled by her tears, “How long?” you whisper once you find your voice and you hate the way it sounds. It must be ruined and unfamiliar._

_“They don’t know,” she repeats and you are sure Abby’s lips tremble and her tears begin to fall anew and you are sure yours must follow suit. But Abby holds your gaze, makes sure you have focused on her and she brushes her hand against your cheek once more, “when she wakes up,” and you are sure Abby must see your eyes darken, must see the doubt and the pain because she squeezes your hand firmly, “When, Lexa. When she wakes up. Do you hear me?” and so you nod. Your voice too far removed to give breath to your thoughts._

_“When she wakes up, Lexa,” Abby pauses once more, takes a breath and holds it before releasing it to the world in a long broken staccato of pain._

_“She might not remember what happened.”_

_The words cut deep into you, and you think your veins freeze and your blood curdle._

_“She might not be the same.”_

 

* * *

 

Waking in the cold of a too early morning is something you hate. Is something you despise and when you feel the frozen pull of consciousness tug at your mind you reach out and try and take a hold of a thought, of a dream and a prayer, anything so that you can continue to live for a moment longer in the familiar embrace of ignorance. And it’s times like this that you dream of Clarke. You dream of her smile and her laugh and her eyes as they live fiercely in the sun. You dream of her fingers as they leave burning trails across your skin that leave you breathless and wanting and aching. You dream of her. And so, as your mind retreats further and further away from her image, you call out her name, you reach out and you beg and plead for her to stay just a moment longer. 

But it lives in the past and you know yourself in a cruel, lonesome future. 

And so you wake. 

You wake to the frantic beat of your heart and the firm grip on your shoulder and a warm body leaning over you. And when you open your eyes you see worry and pain and understanding and acceptance. 

“Lexa,” you feel the squeeze, “you’re ok. It was just a dream,” And Costia pulls you to her, soothing words falling from her lips telling you that you aren’t in a car, that you aren’t pinned in your seat and that Raven’s bloodied, broken leg doesn’t lie strewn across your feet and that blood doesn’t drip into your eye clouding your vision a red and bloodied mess, and that Clarke doesn’t try and hold her head together, doesn’t try and stop the pain that must ring out through her mind.

And when Costia holds you tight? When she loves you and stays with you through your dreams? 

You hate yourself and you feel guilt rise within, a vile, bitter, cruel thing. 

It’s moments like this where you can’t stand the worry that lives in Costia’s eyes, if only because you were dreaming of _Clarke_ and her touch as it wends a careful path across your skin, and her smell that lingers comfortably in place, or her taste and her sounds and the way she looks and breathes as her chest heaves, as her body contorts and twists in pleasure.

And you think Costia deserves better.

You know she does.

And so you turn to her, let a quiet _I’m ok_ fall from your lips and when she smiles quietly, when she presses her lips to yours softly you try and forget.

 

* * *

 

You let your feet walk you, your thoughts drifting from moment to moment, a memory sometimes lingering too long, too unpleasant and you try and lose yourself to the noise of the city, of the cars that pass and the people that talk and the birds overhead. You let the cool of a warming sun grace your face and you pull your jacket ever closer, if only to shield yourself from errant thoughts. 

You stop briefly to let a man exit before you push open the doors, walking quickly to the lift that waits to take you up. And when you feel the press of bodies, when you hear the quiet apologies you merely shrug, merely offer a soft _it’s ok_ and then you exit, ever thankful to be free again. You pass Anya, already in her office and you see her eyes follow you, you see her gaze concerned and careful as she watches you. But you ignore it. You know Gustus would have told her what had happened, you are sure she will let you avoid the topic when she brings up what bothers you at a later date and so you unlock your office door, let the soft thump of it close behind you and you sit back in your chair, your eyes following men and women through the glass of your office as they pass, the quiet of your office that you find yourself in all that keeps you company for a dull while.

 

* * *

 

“Lexa,” Your eyes raise from the report you read to meet Anya’s and so you motion her in, “Gustus told me what happened.” You think you appreciate Anya’s forwardness, her disregard for uncertainty and the lack of softened words. “You want to talk about it?” she asks then, already sitting in the chair before you, a small stack of reports already being laid out in front of you, a clear indicator that you can change the topic, can avoid the truth and live in ignorance for one more day if you wish.

But maybe you’re tired of being ignorant. Maybe you want the truth to live freely just once and so you look at her, let your eyes meets hers and you open yourself, “I saw Clarke,” it’s simple, a repeat from a previous day and when you look into Anya’s eyes you see them darken, you see her take a steadying breath.

“Are you sure?” 

Are you?

“Yes.” 

“What are you going to do?” 

What _are_ you going to do?

“I don’t know.”

“You could call Abby. Ask her if Clarke’s actually here,” and Anya pins you with a careful look, her eyes searching and calculating, and you don’t miss her words — _If Clarke’s actually here —_ Shouldn’t you call Abby though? Didn’t you tell her you would call again? Wouldn’t it be wise to know? 

“I’ll call Abby.” And so Anya leans back reaching for a report in one hand while passing you another, the topic coming to an even conclusion.

 

* * *

 

Your eyes drill painfully into the name that lingers on your screen and you trace the edges of the icon, you let it burn itself into your mind. And just before your finger presses down you pause and glance out your window and you let the sun burn brightly for a long second. 

“Lexa?” you smile for a quiet moment when you here her voice and you know you’ve missed it. You know you’ve missed her.

“Hey,” you don’t even know how you should broach the topic that lingers, “how are you?” you think you can start by being polite. 

“I’m good,” you hear her smile, you hear the the quiet clutter and clang of cutlery and you frown for a moment. 

“You aren’t busy?” you worry your lip, “I can call back.”

“No, no, I’m just on my lunch break,” you hear her move something further away, “I’m glad you called again,” and you know you hear a longing and a love that still clings desperately to her words and you know you feel a stab of pain and guilt. 

“I’m sorry.” You don’t think you will ever stop being sorry.

“Don’t be, Lexa,” you think her too kind, too understanding, “you needed time.” You did.

“I just—” the words die in your throat, a stinging taunt that lingers too long. But you think Abby deserves to know how you _really_ are. She deserves to know and so you embrace the pain and you force the words out, “I’m not doing well,” and you are sure it comes out a whisper, a quiet, ragged breath and you hear her gasp slightly and you are sure you sense her clutch the phone tightly and lean closer.

“I’m here, Lexa,” you hear the whisper through the unfurling storm of your breaths, “talk to me.” 

And so you do. You break and you wipe frantically at the tears that fall from your eyes when you tell her of Costia, of your waking nights and your tired dreams and your longing and love and loss and hate. And as you stoke at the uncertainty and the pain you hear her offer words of comfort and understanding or merely moments of silence and quiet solidarity and acceptance when you need it. 

You think you talk for longer than you should, and as you glance at your clock you wince briefly at the time that has passed but you think yourself thankful and loving when she brushes off your offer to let her go, to let her enjoy the hour she has. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper again as your thoughts slowly collect and sift through your mind.

“I love you, Lexa, ok? I’m here for you,” you think you love her too, “anytime,” she finishes quietly.

And you know that you next question could build you up, could destroy you and leave you littered across the vastness of your mind.

And so you whisper to her once more, “Abby,” and you feel the beating of your heart and you think you feel your hands shake for just a moment and you think you feel the blood that beats wildly through your veins, “Clarke,” you pause again, wet your lips and brace yourself for rejection and acceptance, “is she here?” 

“Yes.”

All it takes is one word. All it takes is one realisation, one second before you break and you cry and you lose yourself.

“Why?” you choke out.

Abby hesitates for a careful moment, “she started remembering things almost two years ago,” you don’t recognise the pained whimper that escapes you, “just pieces, just moments and feelings and places.” 

It hurts. It hurts so, so much. 

“Why? Why is she here?” 

You think you must sound desperate and broken and tired of pleading and not knowing.

“She thought it would help her remember. She thought it would help her remember the years she lost, let her move on with her life.” And you think you hear the tears that fall from Abby’s eyes and you know you hear the pain and the loss that lives within her. 

“I miss her,” the truth comes free before you can stop it, before you can force it down and live in ignorance, “I miss her so, so much.” And you hear the pained sob that leaves Abby’s mouth and you hear the sniffle and the careful drying of eyes. 

You let the truth hang bitter and stale in the air before you and you think you’ve spoken too much, uttered wrongs and you open your mouth to take back the words, to say you’re just tired, to lie and tell Abby you’re ok.

But before you let the words out into the space between you both you hear Abby breathe in deeply, you hear her steady her breaths and then she whispers.

“You could call her,” It’s hopeful, pained, accepting and understanding and full of something that belongs in the past, locked in a chest of faded memories and long gone beats of your heart, “for closure. For both of you.” and you think her words over. You think over the memories that you have and the loss and the pain and the love that still claws firmly within the beat of your heart and the pulsing of your veins.

All you want is to hear her voice once more.

All you want is to see her smile once more. 

All you want is…

“Ok.”

 

* * *

 

You leave much earlier than you should, and as you pass Anya’s office you feel her eyes drill into your back and you are sure her eyes follow you as you walk to the lift. But really, all you can feel and comprehend is the torn piece of paper clutched firmly in your hand and you know you need to breathe the sharp bite of the outside air, you know you need to feel your feet take you somewhere else. If only so that you don’t do something cruel and stupid and senseless. 

You push through the open doors and you stare up into the sky, you search for the sun and when the rays burn radiant and painful you let your eyes linger for a moment. And you pray and hope it will calm your mind.

But your mind isn’t so kind.

And you know the world isn’t so caring. 

You hail a taxi, and you force yourself in, hurried breaths leaving you senseless and shivering and you watch as the cars race past and you watch as the lights change from red to yellow to green and you think your mind wanders and tears and rages and breaks softly and slowly. And when the taxi pulls up at the destination you stop. You let your eyes focus on the building that stands before you and you try and steady the frantic beating of your heart. 

You let your feet take you to the door and you grip the handle tightly, your hands shaking and your fingers cramping. 

And it hurts. The paper burns your fingers and you feel the itch and the wilting of your resolve that you have left as it seeps away. 

You hate this feeling. It’s the raging of a storm too close to escape, too much to bear.

And so, with your mind screaming out, you push open the door and you walk forwards. 

Gustus greets you then, surprise flitting across them before they narrow softly in thought, “Rough day at work?” and you shrug, merely nod your head and you grimace when you feel the crumpled piece of paper in your palm.

“I…” you swallow hard for a moment, “I need a drink,” you see him look to you carefully, his eyes kind and searching for just a moment before he nods, his arm outstretched, guiding you to a far corner, away from the few that sit at this odd hour.

“Want to talk about it?” he asks, already placing a glass before you, and when you look up, when you let your eyes meet his and you see the caring and the kindness and the memories that you both share you think you break and you feel your shoulders shake and you feel your eyes sting and so you push your fists to your eyes, you squeeze your hands so, so tight and you think your head shakes, and shakes, and refuses to believe.

Refuses to remember.

 

* * *

 

_“Lexa,” she breathes, her fingers digging into your hair tightly, “Jesus fuck,” and you hum softly in response, a smile playing across your lips as you continue to press them hotly across her neck._

_You think you press harder, your hands beginning to search but she pauses, her breaths coming in lungfuls._

_“Stop,” she hisses, her hands prying your face from her neck and you jerk back quickly, your eyes widening in fright—_

_“Oh, shit, Clarke — shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t. I—” and you search for words and reassurances and apologies but she laughs, grips your face in her hands and kisses you quickly,_

_“No, it’s not that,” and she cuts you off with a squeeze of her fingers, “I want to. I do.” and she blushes carefully, “just not here, in Gustus’ bar, and especially not in this bathroom…” and she looks away for a moment, biting her lip carefully, “not for our first time,” and you breathe out quietly, happily, reassured._

_“Sorry,” you whisper, a smirk playing across your eyes and she smiles back, a bashful, quiet thing and so you tug her away from the sink and kiss her quickly once more before retreating back into the bar._

_And as you exit you see Gustus eye you warily, his eyes narrowed in thought, and you are sure he takes in Clarke’s ruffled hair, her shirt that hangs lopsided and uneven and your own hair, braids a mess and your lipstick smeared._

_“That was quick,” he says then, his laugh a baritone and full._

_And you think you laugh too when you hear Clarke whisper a pained_

_Kill me, please._

* * *

 

Gustus watches you, his gaze thoughtful and comforting, your hands shaking before you, “I’ve been seeing Clarke,” you whisper finally and you see is eyes widen for a moment, “she’s hear, somewhere,” you finish, your hand gesturing awkwardly around.

And Gustus merely hums, already filling your glass with a drink far too strong for your tastes, “I called Abby,” you say then, your hands snaking out and grasping the glass carefully, and you pause before bringing it to your mouth and you let the heady smell sting your nostrils and burn your eyes, “I called Abby,” you repeat and you are sure it comes out quiet and broken, and you wipe away a tear that dares to roll down your cheek and Gustus passes you a box of tissues and you smile at him mournfully, mouthing a quick _thank you_ and then you let the burn of the drink scold your throat and wind its way over your tongue.

“What’d she say?” and it’s a quiet prompt, free of judgement or opinion. 

And as you recall the words Abby told you, as you recall the image of Clarke, broken and bleeding you think your whimper an involuntary, pained sound.

“She remembers,” and you choke on the words, you feel them tear at your throat and it burns stronger and more cruelly than the harsh bite of the drink in your hands.

“She remembers?” Gustus repeats, a hand rubbing his chin for a moment.

You close your eyes, shake your head for a short while, if only to deny, to forget and to ignore. 

“Not everything,” you shrug then before taking another soft sip, “I don’t know.” you finish lamely.

And don’t you want her to remember? Don’t you want Clarke to have those memories you shared? Don’t you want Clarke to still think of you and to still hold your time that you spent together close within? 

Don’t you want Clarke?

“I don’t know how much she remembers,” you repeat, and it pains you and bruises your heart when you realise she might not remember who you are, what you shared, what you both had.

“But she remembers something,” And you look into his eyes, his gaze steady and comforting.

“Yeah,” and you think the word tired and beaten as it escapes your mouth.

“Can that be enough?” he asks, 

And you think over his words. You let them burn into your mind.

“What should I do?” 

“Do you want to talk to her?” 

You want to.

“It’s not fair,” you whisper to him then, “It’s not fair,” you repeat it, and you feel the red anger and burning that lives within the words. “It’s not fair,” you think you feel the warning of the yellow amber. You think you hear the whispered _be careful_ meandering though your mind. “It’s not fair,” and you feel the green of the light as it whispers words urging you to take a leap, to do something foolish and cruel and broken.

And you think of Costia.

“I can’t,” You think of Costia and her smile. You think of the curls of her hair, unruly and wild in the morning, “I can’t” you think of her groans of annoyance at being woken by your early morning runs, “I can’t” and you think of her understanding and acceptance and the warm embrace she supports you with when you break and fall.

“You still love her, don’t you.” his voice is quiet, only living in the soft space that lingers between you.

“I can’t” you think of Costia. You think of her pressed against you, and you think of the soft whimpers that fall from her lips.

“Sometimes, Lexa,” Gustus pauses for a moment, lets his eyes search yours. He reaches across the table then, lets his hand dwarf yours, “You can’t help who you love.” 

“It’s not fair,” you whisper and you look to him, you look for reassurance and guidance. You look for words of advice and of knowing and of a way forward. Of a way to live. 

But when he smiles sadly at you? When he grips your hand just a moment tighter in his grasp? And when he whispers back. 

“It’s not.” 

You think you crumble and fall.

 

* * *

 

You don’t remember how many drinks you have. You don’t remember how much they burn and sting and scold. You are sure Gustus cuts you off quickly, his eyes always searching for you through the slowly growing number of people.

But through all the hours you think that you sit and spend in his restaurant you think you feel the constant brush of the paper in your fingers and as you trace the torn edges of it you think it a cruel and evil beast that taunts and begs for you to look, if only for a moment, if only so that the numbers can linger for a long enough second in your mind. 

_It’s not fair._

 

* * *

 

_You think you enjoy the warmth of the blankets that embrace you and you think you enjoy the press of a body against your side and you think you enjoy the light that dances across her bare back. You turn carefully, if only to avoid waking her and you tuck your hand under your chin in thought, let your eyes wander across her tired face and you think you smile at the hair that brushes her cheek._

_You move closer, let you hand linger softly against her arm outstretched to you in sleep and you smile as you tangle your fingers between hers, and when she squeezes a moment, sleep slowly replaced by a lingering smile you think you squeeze her hand back. You think you would enjoy waking up next to her each day._

_You think you would enjoy being with her each day._

_And you think you smile at the realisation. You think your heart beats just a bit more frantic and happy as your mind drifts to the future. And when she wakes, when her eyes peak open and when you roll her over, your legs straddling her body and when her hands dig playfully into your waist? you think you know what you feel._

_You think you know you want to marry her._

 

* * *

 

You glare a pained and lonely thing at the bottom of your glass. Your mind a slurred and tired beast that aches and beats painfully in your head. You let out a sigh then, look out the window and see that night has slowly crept its way over the sky. You think Costia will be home soon, will probably start dinner, will be humming a soft tune as the music carries through the home you share. And you think yourself guilty and cruel. 

You think she deserves better and you know she does. 

You watch as people filter through the restaurant. Some for a quiet meal, some for a burning drink to sooth a too long day. You watch as men, women and children walk past, their heads ducked and their shoulders hunched to fight back the cold for a few more moments. And your eyes catch the flicker of the light that flashes past, of cars and of the changing traffic lights.

You watch as a young couple embraces by a car, arms wrapped tightly around each other, laughter living comfortably in their eyes and you think you smile, if only for a short, pained moment and you think you remember a time when you felt like you could love freely, could ignore the world as it rages past. If only for a night.

 

* * *

 

_You think you must hold Clarke painfully tight against you, you think your nails must dig into her scalp and your fingers tug forcefully in her hair, but you hear the sounds that escape your mouth, you hear the beat of your heart and you feel her as she loves you and carries you through the flooding of your emotions and you think you smile, wide and carefree as she comes to rest besides you, her face resting comfortably across your shoulder._

_She smiles then, a quick wipe of her hand across her face and a twinkle in her eye and she leans closer, lets her breath brush against your mouth and so you lean into her touch, and you are sure you smile when she whispers to you, “see, much better than in a bathroom.”_

_“Yeah,” it’s breathless and eager and wanting._

_And you lie back, let your chest rise and steady and you enjoy the feel of Clarke as she winds herself around you, as her fingers dance across your skin. But you think yourself polite and sharing and so you roll her over, lean over her and as your eyes meet hers and as her eyes widen and darken you think you smile a wicked, devilish smirk._

_“My turn.”_

 

* * *

 

You lose yourself to the memories that creep back, a slow, constant rushing through your mind and you hear the whispered question that lingers in the back of your thoughts. 

Is it this one she remembers? 

Does she remember?

And it hurts. You think your heart must beat out of time to the rushing of your pulse and you think your mind fogged and dulled and broken to the drink that sits painfully in your stomach. And perhaps if you were sober, if you weren’t so confused and broken you would realise the regret you’ll wake to in the morning. But isn’t that why you came? To forget. To not think?

You feel a soft buzz in your pocket then, you hear the quiet hum that wafts to your ears and so you fumble meekly, let your fingers tug and grasp at your phone and you raise it to your ear. 

“Where are you, Lexa?” 

_Costia_

“At Gustus’ bar” and you are sure your words come slurred, wet and foul on your tongue, “the restaurant. Whatever.” you grimace when you think you hear the clang of keys, the rustling of clothes.

“Stay there. I’m coming,” and you want to tell her you’re fine. That you can find your way home, that you don’t need her in this moment. But you think it a lie. 

You aren’t fine. 

You can’t find your way home. 

Isn’t she the one you need in this moment? 

 

* * *

 

You don’t remember Costia picking you up, you don’t remember the whispered conversation between Gustus and her and you don’t remember the soft embrace she holds you with when she pulls you into your apartment.

You don’t remember when you throw up into the sink, as she holds your hair back.

You don’t remember the running of the water and the warmth of the bath or the gentle caresses she gives you as she pushes you firmly, surely into the scolding water.

You don’t remember the tears that fall quietly down your face.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper once she pushes you down onto the bed, the sheets being pulled around you both, “I’m sorry.” 

You see her turn to you on her side, her hand resting under her head and she smiles sadly at you, “It’s ok.”

But it’s not. It’s not ok when she looks at you with love and understanding. When she understands your need to hurt and feel.

“I spoke to Abby,” you whisper to her then, and you think you see her eyes narrow for a moment in thought, and you know you should tell her what had happened. You think you owe her this much.

You think she deserves better.

“She gave me Clarke’s number,” and you are sure your voice breaks, you are sure you turn your face from hers, the blood burning across your cheeks and the guilt that lives slowly rising and boiling.

“What are you going to do?” her hand reaches out, a soft comfort across your shoulder.

“I don’t know,” 

You know what you want to do.

But what you’re going to do? 

You don’t know.

“It’s ok, Lexa. If you want to call her, to talk to her,” and you know the look that will live in Costia’s eyes. You know the understanding and the acceptance. And it makes you seethe, makes your breaths come stronger and broken and pained. And so you roll over, you let the pain fuel you and you glare at her for a moment.

“It’s not ok,” it comes out crisp. It comes out cruel and guilty.

And you see her flinch from you. You see her eyes widen in shock and you think your guilt rises stronger. 

“Why aren’t you angry?” you think it must come sudden, thoughtless and piercing.

“Angry?” she asks, leaning up on an elbow, her gaze ever constant, “I’m not angry, Lexa. Why would I be?” and you shake your head, “I was there, Lexa. At the end. I know what she meant to you. You haven’t hidden her from me,” she finishes, her hand a forceful pressure against your shoulder. “I just want you to be happy, Lex, I understa—”

“No! You don’t!” You turn to her fully, you let your anger burn just a moment brighter. “Stop saying you understand and that it’s ok and that you only want me to be happy,” and you are sure your words come more slurred now, the drink raging back to the forefront of your dulled senses, and perhaps if you weren’t so confused, weren’t so broken you would consider your words, you would regret them, never say them.  

You see her eyes flash for a moment and you think you feel her fingers dig into your shoulder just a small amount tighter.

“What do you want me to say? That I’m jealous? That I don’t want you to see her? To think of her?” you open your mouth to retort, to say something more but she cuts you off, her eyes killing the words you think were growing on your tongue, “I know you still dream of her. You wake calling her name, Lexa,” and the words cut into your heart. They sit painfully on your chest and pull your shoulders down with the weight and the burden and the guilt.

“Why don’t you hate me?” and you know it’s a broken, cruel whisper, a choked sound that digs cruelly into the space that lingers between you both.

“Because, Lexa,” and she reaches out softly, lets her hand wipe away the tears that have fallen, that have spread, “I love you.” But you think you shake your head, you think you don’t deserve what she gives and what she takes and what she endures and so you think your mind denies her words and denies what lives in her eyes. And so she pushes you back down. 

“I love you, Lexa.” 

She leans over you, presses her lips to yours, settles herself over your body.

“I love you.” 

She lets her hand wander, lets her fingers skim the waist band of your sleep clothes.

“Despite what you think.” 

You gasp as her fingers move softly, carefully.

“I love you.” 

She presses firmer, lets the rising of her chest press against the heaving and frantic beating of yours. 

And you gasp and whimper and close your eyes as she kisses you deeply, lets the words she voices linger and wind their way through your body. 

And as you near, as you crest and as you crumble around her fingers you don’t notice the small box that sits by her bedside lamp, you don’t notice the warm velvet and its familiarity and you don’t notice that the wetness that clings to your cheeks and that stains your soul falls from Costia's eyes.

“I love you, too.” _Clarke._


	6. Chapter 6

_Hi, it’s Clarke! Leave a message after the beep and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can._

_Hi Clarke._

_It’s me again._

_…_

_You know that._

_…_

_I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner._

_Work’s been busy recently._

_…_

_I—_

_I met someone today._

_She’s nice._

_I think you’d be friends._

_…_

_She helped pick out your flowers._

_…_

_I miss you._

_Please wakeup._

 

* * *

It’s cold, the wind bites into you for a moment, enough to make your muscles freeze and for your mind to urge you back into bed but you push forward, let your feet slap rapidly against the pavement and you let yourself be taken, let your body move through a routine much too familiar.

Your thigh pains you just a small bit less, just a soft ache and you think yourself glad, you think yourself thankful that your head is the only thing that throbs and burns in the morning. The words you spoke last night haunt you quietly, you know you regret them and you think that when you get back, when you see Costia again you will have to apologise, will have to discuss what lingers between you both. But for now you push yourself further, push yourself faster, if only to try and run from what hangs quietly over you. You still feel the torn edges of the paper, you still feel the bleed of the ink that holds the only lifeline you have to Clarke. And perhaps if you weren’t so selfish, if what you were feeling wasn’t guilt then you wouldn’t think of calling her. But you think yourself both those things. 

But isn’t it for closure? For Clarke and yourself? 

Isn’t that what Abby said? 

But, when you think, when you listen to the beat of your heart and the tremor in your chest, when you let the lie fade for a moment you think you know that what you really feel, what you really want isn’t closure. Isn’t acceptance and for a chance to move on. You think you never moved on, never really gave up.

Isn’t that why guilt exists? 

Your feet continue to hit the pavement until the sun shines painfully in your eyes, until the cold that hangs just a moment too low over the ground rises, a soft warmth replacing its cruel grasp and so you come to a tired rest, your lungs burning, your legs aching and your mind still throbbing painfully with each thrum of your pulse.

And as you look around, as you cast  your eyes over the path before where you stand you think you feel a stab of pain, a stab of loneliness when you notice that Gustus’ food cart no longer sits quietly, no longer a steady guiding beacon in the rising sun. But, you think your mind whispers to you cruelly, taunts you with a quiet prose, a soft chant of _all good things must come to an end._ And hasn’t everything good in your life reached an expiry? Reached a point where it tastes bitter and foul? But you know it not true, you know it for a lie and a cruel, twisted thought, if only because Costia still stays, still holds you together. And you think you don’t deserve her. You think she deserves better — someone who doesn’t still long for a past and a faded memory, someone who doesn’t at times think of another during the moments when Costia loves your body and holds you through the breathless nights.

You shake your head roughly, let the thoughts break free from your mind and you turn, let your feet begin the slow path back to your apartment and you try and focus your mind elsewhere, try and focus your thoughts to a happier time, a happier memory.

 

* * *

_You feel your pulse beat frantic and sore through your veins and you are sure you must let cruel sounds escape your lips as Clarke continues to push back into your lower thighs and you are certain that running will one day kill you, will one day cause your legs to crumble beneath your weight._

_“Is this really going to work?” you hiss out, your teeth clenched painfully as she continues to knuckle her way up your thigh, her legs straddling your lower half._

_“Who’s the one doing medicine?”_

_“It—” you are sure you yelp when she again digs painfully “— It hurts — oh God.”_

_“Look, all the athletes do it, so if you don’t believe me, then believe the TV,” she growls behind you and you are sure you can picture the way the scowl sits on her brows, how her lip fits between her teeth in thought and how brows furrow and you think the image brings a smile to your lips._

 

* * *

You smile at the memory, your legs a familiar ache beneath you. And perhaps it’s funny, perhaps it’s perverse or even just pathetic that you now run, that you now embrace a lost pain, if only to keep part of her with you. 

Your thoughts turn to the phone call you had with Abby, of her telling you Clarke has begun to remember and you think you feel a slight beat that exists for just a moment stronger as it pushes the blood through your veins and you think you feel a sense of dread, of excitement. Of want. That lingers within you. 

You think of the torn piece of paper that sits somewhere in your room. A last vestige of something that faded, a last handhold of a crumbling life. But you think yourself guilty. And you know yourself guilty if only because it exists, if only because you think you will break and reach out for the paper, reach out for that lifeline. If only so that you can hear her voice once more. And it’s for closure, isn’t that what Abby said?

It’s for closure.

You know it is.

Why do you feel guilty?

* * *

Your key scrapes into the lock carefully, and as you push open the door you’re greeted by a quick turn of a head as Costia looks over her shoulder, a careful smile gracing her lips. You let your eyes linger for a moment longer as you trace the silhouette she casts as the sun streams steadily through the open window and you think you smile at the image. You think you smile at the glow and the prose that she is in the way her eyes dance in the light. 

“I’m sorry,” you think she deserves more, “I wasn’t nice last night,” and you think you feel the regret rise up slowly. You think you feel the guilt laugh in your face for a loud moment, “I’m sorry.” 

She turns fully to you then, her eyes still moving a careful arc over your face. She wipes her hands on her sleep shorts quickly before stepping closer, “do you want to talk about it?” and perhaps if you were less a coward, less afraid, less guilty you’d see the way her lip trembles for just a beat of time. 

“I think I should call her,” you let your eyes rise, let her look into them and you hold her gaze, to reassure her that you are ok.

“Ok,” it’s a soft whisper by the time it reaches your ears but you lean into her touch when her hand reaches out, when her fingers grasp carefully at your waist. And you sigh and let your head rest against her shoulder as her arms embrace you softly. 

You let her hold you for a moment, you let the steady warmth you feel linger around you both and you think yourself content and safe. And you are sure you haven’t done much to make amends with Costia. But you think just staying with her in this quiet moment is enough for now. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper again, but perhaps this time you aren’t so sure, aren’t so confident that you know what you apologise for. 

“It’s ok,” she presses her lips to your neck carefully, lets them linger for a moment longer and you smile when she breathes quietly to you, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

 _I still love her, too._  

 

* * *

The paper burns a careful weight through the palm of your hand and you think that maybe if you turn it over, if you let your eyes gaze upon the string of letters that maybe it won’t feel so insurmountable, won’t feel so uncertain in your grasp.

But you think you will do it now. You think you must, if only because Costia gave you the time, gave you the space and the quiet. And so you reach out with your free hand, let your fingers turn over the paper and you let your eyes linger for a long, finite moment.

You are sure your hand must tremble, must sweat and clench painfully at the phone in its grasp.

You are sure your fingers must feel weighted, heavier than they should.

You are sure your eyesight wavers, unfocused and uncertain as you trace the numbers that appear on your screen. 

You are sure your breath catches painfully in your chest, a constant pressure and a constant taunt as your eyes burn into the green icon. 

You take a steadying breath, your fingers digging painfully into your thigh and you hold it. You hold it and you feel the burn in your lungs. And when you release it, when you let the air breathe freely once more you turn into the light, let the sun burn your eyes and you press down with your thumb. 

You are sure the phone buzzes painfully against your ear, and you know your breaths must be coming fiercer, a struggle and a victory. You wet your lips for a moment, your tongue tasting the sweat that must cling uncertain in its path and your throat bobs with the swallow you force upon yourself, an attempt to clear your drying throat.

It’s faint at first, a quiet click. A sudden intake of breath and a scrabbling of noise. And it must happen within a second, within a fraction of a second but you think it lasts a time. An eon and a too short moment. You think you feel your heart beat frantic, you think you feel your veins thrum and you think you feel the adrenaline that courses painfully with each beat of your heart. 

You hear it then. 

Uncertain and tentative. Familiar.

“Hello?”

You smile for a moment, for just a fraction of a heartbeat. You recognise the quiet rasp. You recognise the inflection and the way her tongue shapes the sounds and the way her mouth forms the words. You recognise the curl of her lips as they part in greeting. You remember the flash of teeth in the bright of a too early morning.

But then you feel. 

You feel the years of pain that sear into your mind and you feel the stinging ruin of loss as it leaves you stranded. 

You feel a flash and a spark and a burning of hope and you feel a stab of want that wreathes guilty through the recesses of your mind. 

And it hurts. It crushes and bruises into the fibres of your flesh and you think it vicious and fierce. You think it brutal and cruel. And you think it destroys you, deconstructs your mind and shatters your heart. 

And so you break.

You break. 

You break and you think your hands shake and your breaths come pained and frayed and you think you must be trembling, must be choking out hopeless sobs of ruin. 

 _Clarke_  

It must sound horrid and desperate to her.

 _Clarke_  

It must sound grotesque and feeble to her.

 _Clarke_  

Her name falls from your lips, and you hold onto her voice, onto the way it lives within your mind and pulls through your veins.

It makes you feel impotent and helpless to not be able to hold her. To not be able to see her.

But you hear the gentle gasp. The quiet intake of breath and the shuddered release.

And you feel your heart as it beats frantic and ecstatic. You feel your mind bend and twist and scream out at you, a question and a truth and a plea and you think your eyes burn in the sun and you think your blood boils through your veins. 

“Lexa?”

You want to laugh, you want to cry and you want to scream. 

 _Clarke_  

You think you do cry, you think your tears must be falling, must be leaving stains of your guilt behind.

“Lexa…?”

“Cl—” it comes out broken and ragged, “—arke.”

 

* * *

_Walking up the stairs while simultaneously drunk, your head throbbing and your skirt hitched far too high for appropriate is something you’ve come to realise is a recipe for disaster. But, regardless of the challenges you think face you both she pushes firmly against your door, her hand finding purchase somewhere between you both and you whimper and groan into her touch._

_“Fu— Fuck, don’t — don’t sto—” her mouth cuts you off and she fumbles behind you, her own keys already in her hand as she gropes for the lock. You smile into her touch when you hear the familiar click and the slight fall as the door opens, but you’re ready for it, and perhaps you’d be impressed if you weren’t so consumed with the buzz of a too strong drink, that you were able to catch you both before you landed on the ground._

_She guides you to the bedroom, her lips hardly leaving yours and as your legs meet the soft of the bed and as she grips your waist forcefully, lets her fingers burn into your skin you are sure your breath screams out in a wail and a prayer as her fingers leave a burning trail up your sides. You let her fingers tug at the clasp of your bra, let the light of a silent moon shine upon you and you smile and smirk as you see her eyes gaze steadily. You laugh and you whine when she presses down on you then, when her fingers hook into your underwear and you whimper when you feel the bite of a cold night._

_You roll her over then enjoying the whimper before you descend, pull the soft red of a dress down her figure and you smile as your teeth bite into her flesh softly._

_“Oh—Jesu— Go— Lex,” perhaps you’ll feel proud at her inability to form full words in the morning, but for now your mind is elsewhere._

_“Roll over,” you growl out to her, your hand already fumbling for the handle of your bedside drawer._

_You press yourself to the back of her then, and you smile and smirk a victorious thing when you are sure she feels the bite as you push forward carefully, You are sure you smile when you feel her shudder, when you feel her tremble and so you let your breath brush her ear. And as she pushes back, as her hands grasp frantically for you, when she whispers out quietly, breathlessly,_

_I love you, Lexa._

_You lean over her, let your words brush against the shell of her ear and you bury your face into the crook of her neck and bite down softly, And you reply with your own truth._

_I love you too, Costia._

 

* * *

You aren’t sure how long you spend in silence, her breathing the only thing grounding you, calming your pained sobs and your heaving chest. You don’t even realise at first that she counts out slowly through the choked words that must fall from your mouth, that her voice helps to steady and calm your broken mind. But when you think your shuddering lessens, when you think your breathing calms for a moment and when you are sure your hands cease their pained shaking you hear it again, soft and guiding.

“Lexa?”

You’ve missed her. You know that much. 

“Clarke,” you think it’s a whispered breath. 

“I’m here, Lexa,” you think you hear the uncertainty, the confusion. And you think the silence again hangs for a moment longer than it should, but you think you smile for a moment, if only because her voice rings out quietly through the speaker, “how…” you think you can feel her grimace at the question you think will follow, “how’d you get my number?” 

“Abby gave it to me.”

“Oh.” 

“I— I just—” you don’t think you can really voice what lingers within your mind, but you are sure your next words will once again come out broken and pained, “how are you?” you finish finally, a quiet sob escaping you.

“I’m ok,” you think you hear her own voice shake, her own breaths uncertain and unsteady.

You think you hold the phone painfully to your ear, you think the hard bite of the screen pushes angrily against your head.

“Are you free?” you aren’t even sure which answer you want to hear, but perhaps you do, if only because you feel a pull somewhere in the recesses of your mind. 

“Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

You feel the unsteady shaking of your hands as you clutch your jacket to you, the cold a chilling bite that digs beneath your skin. Your mind races and your thoughts flinch at what you think you will see, and if only for a short while you try and picture a memory of her when she was vibrant, happy and full of joy, and not the memories that pierce your mind with images of blood and pain and suffering. You try to remember the happy moments you are sure that exist, that live.

Your hand presses against the door and you hold yourself steady for a moment, let your breaths even out as much as possible and then you push forward, and you are sure your legs shake and your feet come unfamiliar to you. You cast your eyes around then, let them linger on the faces you see, all in the hope of seeing a familiar smile. 

You see her then, her hands clutched painfully before her, her fingers gripping each other in what must be a painful embrace. You think your mind throbs for an aching moment as you take her in. You see her eyes that scan the people around her, you see the shadows under her eyes that you are sure must live within your own mind. You feel a familiar tug at the way her hair curls and falls gently across her shoulder and you think you smile when your eyes meets hers. And you bite your lip softly, let the pain linger for a moment and then you push forward, let your feet take you to her and as you near, as you approach what you feel is a startled, cornered beast, she stands, a hand raised tentatively, awkwardly before her and then she waves softly. 

“Hey,” you’re sure it comes out choked, broken and awkward, but you see her smile, you see her shoulders relax for only a moment and you think you see her fingers twitch towards you, to touch you, if only to reassure herself that you are there, before her.

“Hey,” she whispers in turn, and you think you can see the red that lingers in the corner of her eyes, the faint wet that still clings below her lashes.

You sit before her, unsure in your movements and you follow her eyes as they track you. And you think you see disbelief, see longing and loss and a refusal that lives within her eyes. And you think that those same must reflect in your own. 

It’s a strange feeling that sits within you now. You know she is familiar and known to you, but you think she looks aged, different and unfamiliar to your eyes, to the memories you have of you both together, and you think you feel a stab of pain, of hurt and loss when you think of the years you missed. But perhaps this is what you needed, to face the loss of love and of a broken life that never really settled for you. And isn’t that what you’ve been searching for? Closure?

“How are you?” she whispers again from earlier, the noise of what was once a bar falling away, leaving you both to contemplate what lingers between you both in a silent embrace.

And so you repeat, “I’m ok,” what else can you say? 

She reaches out then, tentative and careful, slow enough that you could pull your hand away if you wanted, but you let your hand linger, let it rest on the table between you both and as her fingers close around yours, as she squeezes softly, you think you remember the motion in its familiarity, in its want and its loss. 

“I missed you,” you see her lips tremble, her eyes water, “so, so much,” and as the last truth falls from her lips you see her eyes close tightly, a refusal to acknowledge what must sit in front of her.

You think you’ve missed her too. And so you squeeze her hand softly, and you wait until her eyes open again, until the green looks back at you. 

“I missed you too, Lexa.”


	7. Chapter 7

It’s a strange thing to think yourself dreaming. It’s an unusual thing to think you should know what it is that you dream. It’s a cruel, heartless thing to not recognise the thoughts and the memories that linger and float just out of reach. And the feelings? The moments of laughter, the moments of calm and of frantic energy? All those things that you see far off in the distance seem to fade, seem to bend just that little bit too much, just enough to recede back into the haze that settles itself around you.

And It’s too warm. And It’s too bright. Your mind burns and writhes quietly. And as you reach out, as you try and take hold of what lingers before your gaze, you think it cold, you think a chill clenches softly and firmly around you. 

You think your finger twitches listlessly. 

You think it doesn’t move.

You think your arm moves, reaches out, reaches forward in a desperate plea. 

You think it moves for just a slight beat of time.

The swallow that comes next burns roughly and dry, and it scrapes down your throat.

The cough that whispers past your lips comes painful and ragged, a soft taunt from the yesterdays you can’t quite recall.

You think you blink next, but perhaps your eyelids only twitch gently, if only because you still can’t see. And so you try to open your eyes, try to see what you think has settled around you. 

And it’s strange. Your vision swims oddly as your eyes open just a fraction, the light too blinding, too searing in the empty of the room you find yourself in. And it’s quiet, the gentle darkness that creeps in from what you think must be a window bathing the room in a soft glow. Your eyes wander across the ceiling above you and you think it plain. You think it simple and familiar. Your eyes travel carefully down to the far wall, and you see the plain white that stands before you and you think you’ve seen walls like this before, seen rooms like this before and so you try and remember. You try and grasp what must linger within your mind. But the thoughts and the memories and the moments dance just a step too far for your tired limbs to reach. 

You see the careful arrangement of flowers that sits on a desk on the far wall and you think them kind and gentle, the soft reds and the tender yellows a soothing palette to your sore eyes.

And you think you feel a gentle weight in your hand. It’s strange and familiar and constant. And so you let your gaze drift carefully to your side, and you squint for a moment as the light burns softly into your eyes for just a quiet ticking of time. You think what you see is strange. It’s unfamiliar. It’s comfortable. 

You think she looks tired, the dark that rests under her eyes a lingering blemish across her face. Her hair falls carefully and neat across her shoulder and you let your eyes take in the the soft shirt that clings loosely around her shoulders. And as her chest rises slowly, as her breaths come even and tired you notice the hand that lies in your own, you notice the cool bite of metal that rests against your hand and you see the careful bands as they shine softly in the moonlight, quiet companions on her finger. 

It’s strange. It’s confusing and perhaps you should wake her, let her know that she sleeps, a quiet vigil next to a stranger, her company wasted on a broken, forgetful thing. You think her older than yourself too from the way a careful crease lies in the corner of her eyes, the way a wrinkle graces just a careful touch across the corner of her mouth. But you think her tired and in need of rest so you let her be, you let the careful hold she has on your hand remain. If only because you think it strange that your limbs feel tired and weak. 

And it’s strange you think, as your eyes wander from where her hand lies in yours, that you find yourself on a bed, a tag wrapped around your wrist and you think you’ve seen so many before in your childhood. But what steals your attention, what scares you the most? What makes your breath hitch painfully in your chest and your lungs burn? Its the hand and the arm that you think must be yours. They’re frail. And they’re thin, skin and bone, and as you twitch your finger, as your brain screams out that it can’t be yours you see the finger move, you see it lift cruelly.

And so you stare. Your eyes water and burn and scream as you continue to watch your finger move, and you can’t help but think it deathly and wilted. And as you continue to move it, as you continue to stare you feel her move besides you, you see her head nod softly and you feel her hand grip yours just a bit tighter. And it hurts, just the smallest touch burns and feels heavy to you and so you try and move away, try and free your hand from hers. 

And it’s strange when she grips yours in turn. It’s strange when her thumb rubs softly over your fingers. It’s strange when her eyes open tiredly, when her gaze looks to yours gently. It’s strange when she smiles, her lips twitching up for a moment. It’s strange when you hear the whispered breath that escapes her mouth. 

_Clarke._

You think you must look at her in a stupor. You are sure it must be foreign and unfocused. And it must only exist for a still second. But you think you see the confusion set in, her eyes a far away dream. You think you see them narrow for a fraction. You know you see them widen, you think you see the thoughts that race across her face. Shock and disbelief. Surprise and relief. 

Her mouth opens once, yet words don’t escape, just a choked strangled noise that lives somewhere in the back of her throat. Her eyes scan frantic and desperate across your face and she sits up fully in her seat. 

“Clarke?” it’s broken and quiet when the sound reaches your ears.

You look around the room, your eyes searching for a familiar face, for your mother, your father. 

“Clarke?” It comes out a hiss, a broken plea of denial and prayer. 

Your eyes still search the room that you find yourself in. 

But you think yourself alone.

“It’s me, Clarke,” you feel her tug desperately at your hand, you feel her lean closer to you, “I’m here,” she leans over you, her face hovering above your vision. But you think you flinch away, you think your body flexes and turns and writhes where it lies.

“It’s me,” she whispers and you think you hear it broken. You think you hear the heartbreak and the shattering of a life and a severing of a memory.

“Who are you?” 

You see the pain, you see the raging beast that lives in her eyes and you see the tears that fall unhindered and broken. And you think you shy away from her as they fall, as they land somewhere between you both and you think yourself lost when a sob wrecks through her chest. 

You think it strange when she falls to her knees besides the bed, her shoulders shaking brutally. 

You think it confusing when she clutches your hand tightly in hers and you think it unnerving as she shakes her head back and forth, her hair falling messily across her face.

You think it frightening when her lip quivers, when her chin trembled and her breath comes in painful gasps. 

You think it anguished and miserable when she chokes out a broken, wretched sound. 

And you think yourself alone when you hear the words that die somewhere between you both.

_It’s your Lexa,_

_Don’t you remember me?_

 

* * *

You aren’t sure if it’s the broken wails of the woman that draw the nurses frantically to your room, or if it’s the machinery you only just notice that beeps steadily by your side, but you think it a relief when the door opens, when nurses rush in and quiet words are exchanged with the woman as she continues to call your name out to you as they push her from the room.

And you think it unnerves you when she is pushed out the door, her hand outstretched to you, her fingers clinging at the air that hangs between you both. 

 

* * *

 

It’s a strange thing to lie in a hospital bed for hours, nurses moving in and out, the woman still lingering just outside. It’s a strange thing to not recognise the hands that lie before you, the muscle withered and weak. And you think it a strange thing when your mother walks into the room, when her eyes meet yours and her face breaks. You think it strange and terrifying when she collapses in your arms and her chest heaves and her voice shatters in your ear, your name a repeated prayer that scolds your mind. 

You think she must clutch you painfully to her for long moments before she eventually pulls away, her hands still digging painfully into your arms. And she’s old, you think. Older than you’ve seen. Older than you remember. And as she looks into your eyes, as she scans your face you see the tears that well, you see the pain that lives and you feel the wracking of your own chest as you both cry into each other. 

As your tears subside, as your thoughts slowly coalesce and sort, you find your voice, despite the scattered memories that flash through your mind, “Where am I?” and you lean into her touch as her hand brushes your cheek.

“You were in an accident, Clarke,” and you think that you realised that much, and you see her lips tremble again, her tears beginning to fall once more.

You think of your arms, you think of how weak your grasp feels and the wilted fingers that cling to her, “I was in a coma, wasn’t I?” and her head nods painfully, anguish bruising across her face, “How long?” 

You think yourself afraid of the answer. You think yourself terrified of how long you’ve been asleep. 

“Almost fourteen months,” and it’s whispered and broken. And it hurts. The words sink in and pull painfully at the corners of your mind, and as you try and collect the broken pieces, as you try and sort through the fragments you think they slip and fall from your grasp. 

“Where’s dad?” Your eyes look to the door then, halfway expecting him to rush through it, breathless from his rush to get to you. But your eyes only find the moon that still hangs high in the sky, “why didn’t he come with you?” and you see her eyes close, you see her shoulders shake and her chest heave. And perhaps the silence that lingers, the painful hold she has on your hand scares you more than the answer that follows. If only because you could live in ignorance for a short, painful beating of your heart.

“He’s not here anymore, Clarke.” 

You think yourself deconstruct and crumble when she holds you to her, you think yourself broken and ruined when she rocks you close to her chest and you think yourself helpless as your heart breaks. But perhaps you’re lucky, if only because you don’t notice the tears that fall from her aren’t for the husband she lost years ago. If you weren’t so decrepid in this moment then perhaps you’d hear the denial she sobs quietly out into the space that lingers upon your shoulders. 

But maybe you aren’t so lucky.

 

* * *

 

Doctors visit you soon, and as they enter and leave your room you still see the woman who slept by your side. You still see her standing just outside the door, her eyes never leaving yours when she glimpses you. And you think you see her eyes dart to Abby every so often, if only for a short moment, if only to ask a question. 

The doctors ask you questions too, they ask you about the things you did, the things you remember doing and the events that you recall happening that were important. And they write down what you say, what you think and what you recall. And when you ask why they need to know, why they ask the questions they smiles softly at you, a quiet _Just a routine check_ whispered back _._

But you think they must be lying. If only because you feel your mother’s hand grip yours ever so tightly with each response. 

 

* * *

 

“Who’s the woman outside?” your eyes linger on the door as it closes, and you think you see her fingers reach out to you briefly before the door steals her from your gaze. And so you pull your eyes away from where the door closes on her and you see the quiet breath that Abby holds. You think you can even see the stiffening in her shoulders for just a moment.

“She’s family, Clarke,” and you think it confusing, you think it strange when Abby wipes a tear from her eyes, when she turns her face from you for a moment’s pause. And maybe it hurts, maybe it stings a little when Abby sniffles softly, when she closes her eyes, when she refuses to meet your gaze. “She’s family,” she finishes quietly again, her hand moving to take yours once more.

And the words hang heavy and dull in the space between you both. 

And maybe you think you should feel something.

Shouldn’t you?

“She’s family?” You look at Abby, let your eyes rake over her face, the way it twists painfully, the way her eyes avert and the way she turns from you barely.

Eventually Abby looks to you, and you think you see the uncertainty that lies in her eyes. You think you feel the careful thoughts she must be constructing, must be building. 

“You’re together,” and you think you look at her awkwardly, dumbly, full of confusion. 

“Together?”

“Together,” she repeats softly.

And maybe, just for a brief moment, you think a thought that would be funny, would be pathetic and worthy of a joke, if only it wasn’t now, in this moment.

_I like women?_

But as the thought slowly winds its way through your mind, you think it leaves behind a trace of another thought. Of a realisation and a truth. 

_You don’t remember._

_You don’t remember her._

“I—” and the words die in your mouth, they foul your breath and twist cruelly in your throat, “I don’t remember…” and you think it comes out a barely there whisper, a soft truth that shatters your mind.

And perhaps you realise what it means, what that strange feeling is that wriggles somewhere in the corners of your mind when Abby holds your hand tighter, when she brings her chair closer to where you lie in the bed.

“You’re almost 24, Clarke,” and you know your eyes must be wide and fearful, must be shocked and pathetic and you think you feel the wetness pool and fall painfully down your cheek. 

“No,” you jerk your head painfully, if only in an attempt to shake the words from where they bury into your mind.

“No,” you repeat, your eyes closing tightly.

“No,” and you know you’re crying when your chest burns painfully, when you hear the wretched sobs that leave your lips. 

_No_

 

* * *

 

The water burns cold and unfamiliar across your face as you look into the stream. The beat of it a familiar, lost thing that doesn’t quite warm you enough, and through the water that falls, your hand grips the rail, a constant companion that you find you need. 

It’s a cruel thing to step out of the shower then, to wrap yourself in a towel and to just look at yourself in the mirror. You don’t think you recognise the woman who looks back. She’s older, her face lacking the youthful roundness of childhood, careful lines etch themselves in the corner of her eyes and you see the faint scar that runs through her eyebrow. And perhaps you still deny it, still whisper that it’s from being in a coma. That not having lived is the reason she is aged, is unrecognisable. You don’t recognise her. 

But you think it’s a lie. 

You see her eyes flicker up to yours quickly. You see the grimace and the emptiness that sits in the blue that looks back. And you turn your head, lift your chin for a moment and you let your eyes travel over the line of her jaw, the curve of her neck and you think she must look frail. Must look alien and lifeless. And maybe you feel the same. 

You think you do.

Isn’t she you?

Your limbs shake quietly as you dress, thoughts of the last week running through your mind. You’d seen Abby every day, had spent almost every waking moment with her by your side. You’d seen the woman — Lexa, occasionally, she’d looked broken, longing, her fingers always twitching out to you, if only to reach out and grasp what she longs for. And you’d given her awkward smiles, awkward bobs of your head, of recognition. But not the kind you think she longs for. Not the kind she needs. Not the kind you can remember.

You weren’t to be overstressed, weren’t even really supposed to be moving by yourself, but you had insisted, had demanded that you weren’t to be coddled. And so the doctors had agreed to allow visitors. And as you pull your hair back, twisting it quickly, awkwardly and fumbling, your mind races with questions, with confusion and forgotten anguish. 

You rest for a long moment by the bathroom door. Your head resting against the cool of the surface, your hand against the flat of the door, fingers splayed out, if only to steady the beating of your heart. 

But you don’t think it could work. You don’t think it could ever work.

And so you turn the handle quietly, take a calming breath, and then you’re moving painfully forward, your legs shaky. And you gasp quietly as you feel strong hands take you softly. You gasp an awkward breath as you feel a steady presence take your weight, support your body and help you to the bed. 

“Thank you,” you say once you find yourself lying in the bed, your eyes focused somewhere into your lap.

“You’re welcome,” you feel her hand linger carefully against yours, her fingers applying the barest of pressures.

You turn your gaze upwards then, let your eyes smooth over her face for a careful moment. You think she still looks tired. Her eyes red from lack of sleep and emotional strain that you pretend not to hear when the moon hangs high. Her eyes hold yours once they meet, and you see them swim back and forth between your own. And you try. You try to remember. You try to hold onto anything that could provide a guiding beacon, a warming light and a comforting presence. But what lingers and bends within your mind is a cruel nothingness that you think unfair. Unkind. Unknown.

 

* * *

 

You spend the next month in the hospital, doctors a frequent presence that steadies your mind. It wasn’t until the second week that you discovered that your memories stop at 18, just before you graduate. And it’s a shock, it’s a broken curse and a tearful isolation when you realise you’ve lost six years. Six years of life, six years of living, six years of friends and six years of love. 

Lexa sees you every day after work, she stops by, sometimes for hours, sometimes for only minutes, all that she can spare and you think you feel guilty, you think you feel ashamed that she chases after memories you no longer share with her. And when she holds your hand carefully in hers as you move from room to room you ignore the cool bite of the metal rings that grace her finger, you ignore the matching pair and you refuse to think of them, to face what you are sure they must mean. 

Maybe you’re a coward.

 

* * *

 

It must be two months by the time you’re allowed home. Your old home. Not the one you realise you share with Lexa. If only because you can’t remember where it is that you live. Where it is that your life exists. And it’s pathetic when you think you’ll cry later, when you’re alone in your old room, at the realisation that you don’t remember how to do taxes. How to walk into a bar without worrying about ID or how to even _be_ an adult. You think yourself trapped. You think yourself in a cruel, mocking body, too old for your young thoughts and too broken and tired for your youthful mind.

And so when Abby guides you into your room, when Lexa whispers a pained _see you soon,_ when your head falls against the pillow you think you shatter and break and deconstruct as the tears flow easily, as the pain rears willingly and as the memories remain forgotten.

 

* * *

You sit at the table, Abby in front of you, Lexa to your side, and it’s quiet. It’s awkward, as you think it must always be now. You hear the soft scraping of the cutlery, the careful thud of glasses being raised and placed down. And you’re thankful when Abby breaks the silence, her eyes looking to you.

“Raven’s coming tomorrow,” and you smile softly, painfully. You’d spoken to her on the phone, she’d laughed and cried and screamed when she had heard your voice, had seen your face in the image you had sent her. And you had wept painfully when she told you of her leg, of how it had been crushed and broken in the accident, and how she wears a prosthetic. But you think you also break at how old she looks, how different, how much life she has lived without you. And maybe you’re selfish, jealous of what she has had. 

“That’s good,” you reply, your eyes darting carefully to Lexa, “do… Do you and raven know each other?” it comes awkwardly, stupidly, and you see Lexa grimace for a moment, you see her knuckles whiten around the knife she holds and you think you feel a stab of _something_ that builds in your stomach at her reaction.

“Yeah,” she looks to Abby quickly, pleadingly, painfully.

“You three shared an apartment,” you think you’re grateful for Abby’s interruption. If only because you still don’t feel at peace with what Lexa must be to you. 

“Oh,” perhaps you could have worded a response better than that. Or perhaps not. 

Who knows? 

You don’t.

You think you hate this feeling. This raging uncertainty that seems to scream within you. You think you hate the way eyes dart to and from you, that avert quickly, and cruelly, never holding on long enough for you to reach out. 

“Can I finish this in my room?” your hand takes hold of the plate before you, your eyes ignoring Lexa’s. And Abby frowns for a moment, 

“Yeah, Clarke. You don’t have to ask,” you see her smile softly then, “You’re an adult.” And you think she means well, maybe it’s only a natural reaction, if only because you _are_ an adult. But you don’t remember and so you think you feel an anger that rises. An anger and a frustration and a desperation that claws into your mind. You hate it.

And so you slam your palm down, an anger seethes and rushes through your mind.

“I’m not!” you see their shocked expressions, you see Lexa flinch and Abby’s eyes soften in understanding.

“I’m not!” you shout it louder. 

“Baby—” you cut Abby off with a glare and a finger pointed her way, 

“No!” your hand jerks back to your head, the pointed finger pressing against your temple

“In here?” your breaths come pained and frantic, your emotions freezing in your mind, “I’m fucking eighteen! I don’t remember!” 

And as you look down at them you realise you stand, you realise you lean angrily over the table. And you realise the anger has burned away, her fled and left you broken as quickly as it came. 

“I—” you’re left with your mouth opening once, twice, “I’m sorry,” and you think it comes out rushed, comes out stupid and grotesque, “I’m so sorry,” you whisper it again, and you think yourself incapable of facing their pity, their longing and their love, and so you flee. 

You think you’re a coward.

 

* * *

You hold your knees to your chest, your body rocking quietly back and forth, your mind a forgetful worry and you curse the thoughts that escape and drift too far out. You hear the quiet knock then, the careful shuffling of feet. And so you call out a quiet _come in._ You think you know who it will be, and so you don’t look up when you feel her sit besides you, when you feel her hand reach out awkward and tentative. 

“Can I touch you?” you let your eyes peer at her carefully then, her hand outstretched between you both, and maybe it’d be nice, it’d be different to feel a forgotten touch and so you nod your head slowly. You feel her hand rest gently against your shoulder, you feel her fingers soothe over the tightness of your muscle. 

And you don’t remember. 

You think you must sit like this, in the centre of your room for hours, the moon tracing a quiet trail through the night sky, Lexa a quiet presence by your side. You think that Lexa must long for what had existed by her side. You know she must miss the memory of a Clarke long gone, older, wiser and of a life lived and experienced. But you don’t think you’re her anymore. You can’t even remember meeting Lexa. You can’t even remember your first date. You can’t remember the first time that you shared a bed. 

You don’t remember her. You don’t remember the loving embrace that she must have held you with. You don’t remember the timber of her laugh or the creases in her eyes when she smiles. 

You don’t even remember yourself.

“I need time,” you whisper it to her, and you are sure she hears it despite the quiet that hangs heavy around you both, “I need time.” You repeat it, and you are sure you hear the quiet breath that chokes in her throat, the quiet sniffle that escapes her and the careful sob that leaves her lips. 

“I’ll wait for you,” and it’s a pained, quiet truth that bleed into the space between you both. But you don’t think you deserve it. Don’t deserve what she would endure for you. You think you aren’t her Clarke anymore. And so you turn to her, your eyes holding her own for a painful moment. 

And in this moment? 

You’re a coward. 

You’re afraid.

You’re lost.

“Don’t.”

You see the tears that well in her eyes

“You shouldn’t.”

You see her head that shakes back and forth, you feel her fingers grip your shoulder tightly, and you hear the ruin of her breaking heart. 

“I don’t remember anything.” 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

“Thank you, Raven,” you think you’ve said it more times than you can recall in the few short days you’ve spent with her, by her side, “for letting me come.” And your eyes trace the ground from the window, the clouds moving below you, a quiet undulation for your eyes to follow. 

“Anytime, Clarke,” and you see her look at you carefully, see her lean a bit closer in her seat, “as long as you need, I’m here for you,” and you think yourself lost but thankful. If only because you have a presence by your side that is at least familiar. But maybe, just for a short while, you feel a twinge of guilt at having left Lexa and Abby behind. 

You needed to get away though. And so you lean back into the chair, the quiet hum of the plane a fading noise that soothes the turmoil of your thoughts. 

 

* * *

 

You fall into an easy rhythm, waking later in the morning, Raven already at work. You often find yourself with little to do and so you spend moments just looking out the window, watching the cars that pass, the people that walk and smile and live in the world outside. You call Abby when you can, just to say hi, just to tell her how you’ve been and you think Raven must call her too, must tell her how you really are, if only because Abby doesn’t ask, doesn’t push more than she should. And you notice the way Abby avoids bringing Lexa up in the short conversations you have. You don’t miss the way her voice tightens, the way her tears are often heard through the phone. 

But you don’t remember. But still, you think it only human that you feel guilt, that you feel a sorrow at what you don’t remember. 

And maybe one day you’ll reach out to her, when you’re ready. 

 

* * *

 

It’s a quiet night at Raven’s place, you had spent much of your day at a cafe, your eyes reading as much as you could from the laptop Raven lent you. And you had searched and read anything, if only to catch up to the life that had left you behind, and as you return to your new home, you think you feel tired, you think you feel exhausted of the moments that linger just out of reach and that don’t quite form strong enough for you to grasp. 

You look up from the screen then, your eyes lingering on Raven as she stretches out what remains of her leg, and you grimace for a moment at the scar that runs the length of her thigh. And maybe, if selfishly, you think yourself lucky that you don’t remember the accident. 

“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” you meet her eyes, a carefree smile lingering there for you to see, “not much anyway.” And she shrugs before leaning back on the couch.

“I’m sorry.” 

“For what? It wasn’t your fault, Clarke.” 

But still, maybe you’re sorry you can’t remember. 

“I wouldn’t know.” 

But she ignores your pessimism, ignores your youthful brooding, “Still no memories?” And maybe you think you enjoy her bluntness. 

“No,” you pause for a moment, try to think, try to remember anything, “I— it’s just. I have a feeling. I’m missing something,” you grimace at your poor wording, your eyes darting to Raven’s stump, “It’s not that I know I’m missing something. It’s just that I _know_ that I know something’s missing,” and again you grimace at your words, and you think that the coma must have left you inarticulate, unable to express your thoughts clearly anymore. 

“That makes sense,” you look into her eyes, and you are sure doubt must live within your own because she shrugs again, “it does.” 

“It does?” You aren’t sure what else to say.

“Look, it took me ages to figure out how to deal with my stump,” and you smile softly when Raven lifts it in the air, waving it around as much as she can, “sometimes I get this phantom feeling that it’s still there, and sometimes I’ll wake up, reach down to scratch an itch,” she stops for a moment, lets her mind catch up to her mouth, “but hey, Clarke,” she flips her hair over her shoulder, “You get used to it.” 

“I hope so.” 

“And you know what?” You shrug at her question, but your eyes narrow when Raven sits up, when she eyes you cheekily, “I get to teach you all the fun stuff you don’t remember.” 

 

* * *

 

_“Can you believe it?” you hear her voice quietly, a soothing tune that reaches your ears._

_“No,” you turn over carefully in the bed, wrap your arm around her, a smile gliding across your lips, “I can’t.” And you lean into her touch, let your fingers dance with hers, the cool bite of the metal glinting smoothly in the morning light._

_“You looked beautiful,” she says, her hair falling across her face, “you look beautiful,” she finishes._

_“You did, too,” you see her smile and it’s warm and content._

_“I love you,” she smiles more fully then._

_“I love you too, Lexa.”_

 

* * *

 

Your eyes open slowly, tiredly, the cool of the morning air biting into your tired body. And as wakefulness greets your mind you think you feel a thought, a memory cling to your subconscious, dig its way into your mind and so you lie still for a moment and try to let it live there for a while. It’s strange you think, to sometimes have these feelings, these flashes of memories you think are not your own, but you chase after them all the same. If only to hold on to what you once were. 

And so you rise, the sun casting a loose shadow on the floor that you follow to the bathroom. You pass Raven’s door, the quiet sounds of her snoring reaching your ears and you think you smile at it, and you think you’ve grown used to the sound after all this time. Of the years you had with her before you lost yourself, and of the months you’ve spent with her since. 

You’ve found that you still hate the cold, still think it too uncomfortable, even after all this time, so you let the water heat, let it warm the bathroom before you strip quickly, stepping under the searing water without pause. And it’s a soothing rhythm, a steadying beat and a calming pressure that falls down your shoulders, that warms your core. And as you run your hands through your hair, as you let the lather build and cleanse you think yourself just a bit more comfortable, just a bit more settled. 

The cool air still stings a moment too long as you dry yourself, the chill clinging to your flesh just a bit too desperate. And as you look into the mirror you think you recognise the woman who looks back, she’s older, she’s more wary, more alive, but you think she is you. And you think her less frail than the months prior and maybe you thank Raven for her help, for her guiding presence and her steady support as you rebuilt yourself, if only physically. 

 

* * *

 

“You’re quiet this morning,” You look up at Raven, her fork halfway to her mouth, a caution living in her eyes, “what’s up?”

You think over her words, let your eyes flick from her face down to your plate and you chase the thoughts that run in your mind, try and hold onto the dreamt memory you are sure you had lived. 

“I—” you pause for a moment, look away from her, “I think I had a dream,” you hear her hum an acknowledgement, a quiet prompt for you to continue, “of Lexa,” you look back to Raven, see a soft smirk reach the corners of her mouth, “not that kind,” again you pause, “I think it was a memory.” 

You hear Raven exhale a quiet breath then, “the doctors said memories might come back,” she looks at you carefully, “after a while.” 

“It’s been so long though.” 

“Yeah. I guess so.” 

You let the silence fall comfortably between you both, Raven quickly becoming engrossed in her own thoughts, her phone buzzing occasionally, an update for the project you assume she works on currently. And as you look out the window, as you let your eyes trace the rising of the sun and the passing of the cars and people who walk by you think that maybe, just for a small moment’s time, you long for what you think you remember. 

“Thank you, Raven,” you look up at her again, see her eyes flash up to yours and you see her shrug freely.

“Anytime,” she says and you think she knows that you thank her for more than just today, for the words you exchanged, for more than just a place to stay. 

And maybe you think that you might be ready to take a leap.

Somewhere.

 

* * *

 

You leave the following week, your time spent with Raven a page turned and a chapter finished in the years you’ve missed. And so you leave her with a tearful goodbye, with a tight embrace and whispered words of thanks, and you smile and wave a final time before you pass through the gates, a bag wheeled behind you full of moments remembered and times yet to be recalled.

And maybe, for a moment as you feel the lurching of the plane, as you feel gravity tug at your body, you think of Lexa, you think of her smile, of the way her lips curl in laughter and the way her hair falls across her back. And maybe you remember.

 

* * *

 

You’d spoken to him often, had sent messages too, but you think you’ve missed his presence, his steady smile and his warm embrace, and so you smile fully when he engulfs you in his arms, when he squeezes you tight to his chest. 

And so, when you can catch your breath you say up at him, “I’ve missed you,” and you hear him laugh softly, kindly.

“I’ve missed me too,” and so you push him away, your eyes narrowed in mock annoyance, “I’ve got it,” he says then, already reaching for your bag, and you know that he will ignore your protests.

“Thanks, Bell,” you say then, and maybe you’re just a bit thankful that after the long hours trapped in the plane you don’t have to carry around the heavy bag. 

“Anytime, Clarke.” 

 

* * *

 

_“Sorry,” you grimace painfully at the curse you hear coming from Raven’s room, “she’s not dangerous,” you add lamely, and you see Lexa’s eyes narrow at yet another loud bang, “I swear.”_

_“She’s your engineering friend, right?”_

_“Yeah, she’s nice though,” and you see Lexa shrug once._

_“Where’s my room?” she asks then, a bag clutched under her arm, and so you guide her down the hall, knock on Raven’s door as you pass and call out to her that you and Lexa are both present and you smile at the surprised yelp and the loud greeting you hear._

_“And again, thanks for agreeing to be roommates, since Bell graduated rent’s been pretty crazy,” and you smile softly as Lexa just shrugs once more, her own lips curving into a smile._

_“I was looking for a place anyway,” she says, and you see her eyes peer past you and so you turn to see Raven emerge from her room, wisps of smoke billowing out from it and you groan yet again when you see that she wears small shorts and a loose fitting shirt, and you curse quietly at her for not heeding your pleas for her to make a good impression on Lexa._

_And so you turn back to Lexa, already about to offer an apology, but you think your eyes narrow for a moment when you see her eyes follow Raven, when you see them linger for a moment longer and a level lower._

_And maybe you pretend not to feel a spark of something that lingers._

 

* * *

 

“Raven says hi,” you say, your eyes following the cars that you pass, and you glance over to Bellamy, his eyes still focused on the road, “she asked if you’ve gotten your shit together yet,” and you smile when he laughs, when he shrugs his shoulders broadly. 

“Tell her I say hi too,” he glances over to you quickly, his hair still falling into his eyes, and you think it strange, maybe even a little funny that he wears the same haircut, despite the years that he carries with him now. 

“Thanks, Bell,” you pause, worry your lip for a moment, “for letting me stay.” 

“Anytime, Clarke.”

 

* * *

 

You find that Bellamy lives comfortably, that he has been well, and that you’ve missed his company. He offers you the spare bedroom, tells you that you can stay for as long as you need. And you think it will help. You think that as each day passes you feel a bit more like who you once were. And when you wake in the mornings there are times when you think you can hold on to a dream, a memory that you think must have been living within your mind.

And so it’s such a day that you now find yourself, and It’s a warm morning, the sun just cresting the horizon when you wake. Your eyes focused sleepily on the curtained window and so you let the warmth of the bed hold you comfortably for a while longer. Your thoughts drift to times long gone and as you roll onto your back you think you feel a faint whisper in the corners of your mind that twist and pull and prod at a thought. And maybe if you focus for a moment, maybe if you try and recall a feeling, you think you can picture the way dark brown hair falls, the way the flash of green shines smoothly in the sunlight or even the way her laugh carries in the air. 

 

* * *

 

You roll out of bed and pad your way into the kitchen, and you already know that Bellamy has left, his usual hour long run leaving you with the house to yourself, and so you move lazily, quietly through the rooms to the bathroom.

 

* * *

 

The steady stream of the water beats down on you now, and you think it’s a soothing pressure that massages your shoulders and steadies your mind, and so you let the heat continue to drum across your skin, let it warm your core.

And as you step out from under the heat, when you stand before the mirror you think you recognise who looks back. You think you recognise the curve of your cheek in the reflection, you think you recognise the way the blonde hair falls freely down to your shoulders and you think you recognise the flesh and muscle that carries the dips and curves of your body. And maybe you think yourself just a moment older than you recall, but you think you know the face, know the time that has been lived. Maybe you even remember, just a bit, but enough to feel like Clarke. And maybe as you run the towel over yourself, as you dress quietly, and as you step from the bathroom, as you shift back into the life you now live you think that maybe you remember enough to miss it. 

Maybe you feel enough to want it.

 

* * *

 

“Spoken to Abby recently?” you look up at Bellamy, his eyes still glued to the TV and you think back to the last time you called, maybe two weeks ago, and for a short while you think you feel a stab of guilt. 

“Not recently enough,” you admit, “it’s difficult,” you add softly, and you see Bellamy look at you then, an eyebrow raised in question.

“You shouldn’t cut her off,” he eyes you carefully, and maybe you think you hear the words that linger, and maybe you think he talks not just of Abby. And you think you frown for a moment, let it sit awkwardly on your face. 

“I know.” 

 

* * *

 

 _Your eyes narrow when you reach your door. You put your ear to it and you listen for a moment, and it’s not that it’s quiet. It’s not that the door was open. But it’s that it_ is _quiet. And so you frown for a moment, thoughts of a robbery or a hostage situation running through your mind, but you are sure there’d be screaming, or anything other than nothing. You peer left then right down the hallway, see another student walk past ignoring your questioning look. Your keys scrape at the lock carefully, and as you hear the click you take a breath, turn the doorknob and you push open the door._

_“Guys?” you whisper it out, but all that you’re met with is a heavy silence and quiet darkness, “Lexa? Raven?” maybe you’re stupid to be nervous, they could just be out, but you know Raven has no classes today, that she should be working on her project, and Lexa would have texted you. And so you creep forward, your hand reaching for the light switch and again you whisper out quietly, “Guys…?”_

_And as you find the switch, as you turn the light on you think you yelp, you think you scream out at a register unknown and undignified._

_“Surprise!” Raven and Bellamy jump out, a hat adorning their heads, and you’re sure your breathing must be coming in quick, rapid lungfuls._

_“Happy birthday, Clarke,” Bellamy laughs, clapping you over the shoulder._

_And as the shock of the ambush wears off you smile warmly at him, surprised to see him, “I didn’t know you were coming down.”_

_“Just for today, Lexa insisted,” he says then._

_“Oh,” you smile at him once more, and maybe you try to ignore the rush you feel at her name, “where is she?” you ask, looking around the room, but all you find is Raven already eating a slice of what you presume to be your cake._

_And Bellamy must follow your gaze if only because he shakes his head, a helpless laugh falling from his lips, “your girlfriend went to pick up Anya, they’ll be here soon,” and you grimace at his teasing._

_“She’s not my girlfriend,” you glare at him, but he laughs, merely shrugs and walks off to share in the cake that you are sure won’t last long._

_And maybe, as you eye him retreating, you find that you don’t mind the idea of girlfriends and Lexas._

 

* * *

You find that the winter seasons are much more severe, much more moody this far north, the chill a much colder bite and the wind a howling mess. But you think you enjoy it, if only because you can wrap yourself in warm jackets and scarves and gloves. And so you push forward, your hand clinging to Bellamy’s arm for support.

“This fucking sucks, Bell,” you yell at him over the wind, wiping a traitorous strand of hair from your forehead. 

“Hey,” he says, offence colouring his tone, but you know he jokes, if only because he pokes you in the ribs, “it’s not that bad, you get used to it. Eventually.” 

And you’re thankful when you reach the entrance, when you push open the doors and you step into the warmth of the restaurant. And you roll your eyes and smile softly when he waves you through, bowing slightly at the waist. 

You find your seats in a far corner, cosy and warm and you smile as he pulls your chair out.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

“It’s the big two-eight for you, Clarke,” he laughs as you scowl at him, “you’re getting old. And it’s my duty to protect the elderly.” 

 

* * *

Dinner is nice, simple and friendly, and you find that you laugh more, that you live a bit more relaxed in his company. Bellamy tells you of his day, of the children he teaches how to ski, and you think you enjoy this side of him, the protective fatherly figure that you think obvious now that you remember his brotherly guidance of younger years. And maybe, as conversation flows easily between you both, you think you feel the tugging at the corners of your mind, the feelings that live steadily, more vibrant with each day that passes and you think you miss it. You think you miss the feeling and the laugh and the touch of a lost other half. 

And maybe Bellamy notices too, notices the way your eyes must drift and the way your thoughts must turn because he reaches out, his hand clasping yours for a moment’s squeeze. 

“You ok, Clarke?” you look up at him, let your eyes rest in his gaze. 

“Yeah,” you respond quickly, but you see him frown, you see the fork that lingers halfway to his mouth, “no,” you amend. 

And he puts it down, wipes his mouth with the napkin, his eyes thoughtful, “want to talk?” 

You worry your lip for a moment, your eyes darting to the faces that sit near and far. 

“I think I’m remembering,” you look to him, see his eyes soften, see his expression loosen for a moment, “I’ve felt comfortable. Happy with my life for a while now,” you pause, think over the dreams you have, the feelings you recognise and the guilt and the longing and loss that you are sure must be real, “but things are coming back. You know? I don’t know what to do.” 

“What do you want?” he asks.

_Her. My old life. The one I walked away from._

“Raven helped me heal, you know? Physically, I mean. She helped with the therapy, with the pain,” you motion to the side of your head, “but I’ve got a life here, with you.”

“The guys at the hospital’d understand, Clarke,” he smiles warmly, “if you wanted to go back,” he pauses, lets his mind wander for a moment, “plus, you can always finish that degree of yours,” he smiles at you, “the work you’ve done here’s got to count for something, right?” 

And you laugh for a moment, “I don’t think that’s how it works, Bell,” but maybe you should look into it. If anything, the experience must be worth something. 

“Yeah, I guess,” he says, “and don’t worry about me. O’s gonna finish school this year, she’ll come stay with me, she’s already Tee’d up a position. Search and Rescue,”and you smile warmly at the proud look he carries. 

 _“_ Yeah,” you think for a moment.

Maybe you should come home.

 

* * *

The remainder of your night passes easily, and as you wind down, as your plates are cleared you fall into a quiet moment. Both of you content to just sit for a while. And as you watch the snow that falls outside, as you follow the cars that drive past you think of a life that you don’t remember, not clearly anyway. And you think you must be looking back through glasses, fogged and cracked, but you think you can feel what you miss, sense the _something_ that lingers, if only you’re willing to take a leap. 

“Hey, Bell,” you look up at him.

“Yeah?” 

“When do you know you’re ready?” 

You watch as he leans back, his arms crossing over this chest, his finger scratching lightly at his chin for a moment.

“With my students,” he pauses, tapping his finger against his lips for a moment, “sometimes they need a test, I’ll take them on a run, get them to do or handle something that’ll push them,” he pauses again, “but sometimes I get this feeling, it’s not sudden, it’s not an epiphany, but like, I’ll just wake up one day and have this feeling. And then I’ll be skiing in front of them. And I’ll look back, I’ll see one, their eyes scanning properly, skis doing what they should, a smooth pizza shape and everything,” he stops for a moment, a smile lifting his lips quietly, “and I’ll see that they’re not really focused on what I’m doing. But more so on what they’re doing. On where they’re going. On just skiing.” 

He looks you in the eyes, holds your gaze comfortably, “sometimes you stop needing other people to guide you. Sometimes you just need to trust yourself.” 

 

* * *

 

It’s a tearful goodbye, you hold Bellamy close and whisper that you’ll visit again, and he smiles, presses his lips to the top of your head kindly, _anytime, Clarke_ whispered to you, and so you wave once more before the gates steal you from his gaze. And you think, as the plane speeds into the clouds, as the earth falls away, you think you’re ready to come home. 

 

* * *

 

You smile and cry harder than you realise when Abby engulfs you in a warm embrace, tears smearing down your cheeks and you apologise for not calling more frequently, for not sending letters as often as you should, but Abby understands, and you’re thankful for it. 

 

* * *

 

She shows you to your old room, tells you she’ll call you when dinner’s ready and for you to rest for now. And so you lie down on your bed, your eyes tracing the old posters you have stuck to your walls and ceiling. And it’s a bittersweet thing. It’s a calming thing to remember the moments you’ve had in the room. And you think you smile softly, you think the years have been good, have been hard and building. Have been what you needed. But as your eyes move over the walls, as they fall to the centre of the room you can’t help but to feel guilty, to feel a longing and a want. And you remember your words, your denial and you think you feel a remorse that lives within you, a remembered thing that lingers and chews and begs to be set free.

“I’m sorry, Lexa,” you whisper it out, let the words live quietly in the space that surrounds you, “I’m sorry I forgot you,” and you sniffle softly, wipe your hand across your eyes and you think you feel the broken beat of your heart, a piece missing that should push and pull against your own. 

And maybe, if only for a moment, you think you remember what love feels like. 

 

* * *

 

You find that the weeks sometimes travel slow, a painful creep through your days and you find that sometimes they travel fast, a blurring of time and moments. And you begin searching for an apartment, somewhere simple that you can stay comfortably, and you know Abby doesn’t wish for you to move out so soon, but you think you didn’t leave Bellamy to fall back into a routine, and so you insist that you will be independent, try and find your way by yourself.  

Abby helps you on her weekends, either passing you suitable apartments, or helping you pack, and so you find yourself in your room, the sun shining brightly through the window, boxes filled and clothes folded on your bed. And it’s a quiet, bittersweet thing to be packing but maybe you think you’re ready this time. But you hear the quiet gasp from behind you, and so you turn, your eyes falling on Abby as she holds a bound book carefully in her arms.

“Everything ok?” you ask it quietly, afraid to disturb the moment she must be having, but she looks up, lets her eyes find yours and she smiles softly.

“Come here,” she whispers, her hand reaching out to you, and so you tread carefully to her side, and you sit when she guides you down onto the edge of the bed, “here,” she says, passing you the book.

“What—” she shushes you quietly, opening it to the first page, and you think you gasp, you think you tremble quietly as your eyes take in the first image you see. 

“You were both so beautiful that day,” she wipes a finger across her eyes quickly, her shoulders shaking quietly, and you look at the image, you see the dresses that flow, elegant, brilliant and ardent in the sunlight that streams down. And you think you must ignore the blonde of your hair when next to you stands Lexa, her arms wrapped tightly around your waist, her hair braided and intricate and fierce, a smile, graceful and happy and shining living in her eyes. 

“Were we happy?” but you think you already feel the answer that must exist.

“So very much,” Abby smiles at you softly, “she loved you so, so much, Clarke,” and maybe you don’t realise you cry softly until Abby wraps her arms around you, and so you lean into her touch, lean into her whispered words and soothing embrace. 

“I miss her,” you choke out, and you think it surprising and truthful and broken when the words leave your lips, and you think of the times you wake, of the memories you are sure you have been recalling and so you shake your head, try and banish the pain, but as Abby holds you tightly, as she rocks you close to her you think they come stronger, come with a strength and a desire. And so you think you break and you drown and you fall into your mind.

And you are sure you must stay like this for hours, must stay held in Abby’s arms for a long while. And so, as your heart begins to beat less frantic, as your shoulders quiet, you take a breath, a trembling, broken one, but one that steadies you for a moment. 

“I think I’ve been remembering her,” you look up at Abby, and you are sure you let a tear fall again, and so she wipes it away quietly, “I get flashes, of moments. Of feelings,” and you are sure you hear her whimper quietly, hear her sob gently alongside you.

“You could go back, Clarke,” you look up at her once again, “just to say hi. Just to see how she’s been. For closure.” 

And it sounds nice, it sounds right to be able to turn this last page, to end this chapter of your life. So maybe you will. 

Shouldn’t you?

“Have you heard from her?” you ask, your voice quiet and timid, unsure of whether you wish to know the answer. 

“No,” it’s sad, full of longing and loss, “she hasn’t called in years,” you hear the sniffle and the pain that must still linger, “I don’t blame her,” Abby continues, “I couldn’t blame her,” she looks at you kindly, brokenly, “I think she needed to find herself too.” 

 

* * *

 

It’s a strange feeling to walk down streets you once called home. It’s a strange feeling to think you remember the buildings, the trees and the way the city breathes around you. And as you stop at the lights you think your heart beats frantic. You think your eyes gaze upwards and you think you feel a pride and a longing and a loss that lives quietly within your mind. And as you cross the road, as you pause at the doors and as you look up at the building that towers above, you think you feel awed. 

And you think yourself happy, and peaceful knowing that she was able to move on. That she was able to build a life, a career. But isn’t that what you told her to do? To not wait for you? 

Maybe you aren’t sure you should have said those words so long ago. 

 

* * *

 

It’s a park you think you remember well, it’s trees you think you spent many hours underneath and as you sit, as you let your thoughts wander and your mind settle, you think it’s a strange thing to walk through a city that you once lived in, yet remember only small moments from. But maybe you think this is what you needed. Just small moments to ease you back into a life that you once shared. And it’s nice, it’s quiet and it’s calming, and you see a woman run past, you see her slow and you see her take deep lungfuls of air, and as you continue to watch her as she nears a drink fountain and as she bends you think you remember the way her hair falls, you think you remember the colour of it as the sun shines lightly and the way it sways and dances in a cool morning breeze. 

You think you’ve missed Lexa.

 

* * *

 

The next time you find yourself at the park, it’s cold, it’s damp and you think yourself a fool to sit at a bench, to have a sketchpad on your lap. But you think you enjoyed drawing once, so perhaps doing it now, in a place that is familiar would help, could help. 

Should help. 

You arrive before the rising of the sun, you arrive in time to see it crest the horizon and shine fiercely onto the trees that dot the area. And as you lean over the sketch pad, as your hand moves in quick, remembered arcs you think you enjoy the feeling. You think you enjoy the motion and the calming sound as the pencil scrapes across the surface. And as you look up, as you stretch your neck you think you see a woman run past, her hair billowing out behind her, and her feet moving fast, steady and graceful. And as you meet her eyes, as the sun shines you think you see the green, you think you see the dip of her neck and the flash of something that lingers for only a moment before it vanishes and she races past. 

You know you’ve missed Lexa.

 

* * *

 

You stay not far from the park, a small apartment, enough for yourself, and you find it comfortable. You find that you fall into an easy rhythm of waking in the morning, of walking the streets, chasing a familiar ghost that sometimes lingers long enough for you to grasp. And you think you feel a steadying of your mind as your feet take you where they wish. 

And it’s a cold day, and a cold night when you walk to the bar, now more restaurant, and you look up from your phone screen, and you smile at the old memories you are sure surface slowly. And you think yourself proud of Gustus, you think yourself happy that he was able to turn it into something bigger. And you think of entering, you think of finding him and saying hi, of telling him you’re sorry for leaving, for disappearing. But as you move to the door, as your eyes trace the people already seated you think you freeze. You think you stare, transfixed, saddened and broken. Bittersweet and accepting. You see her, you see the way her hair falls down her back, you see the dress that clings to her body and you see the carefree smile, the softness that lives in her eyes. And maybe you excuse the shadows you think you spy that rest beneath her eyes, if only because you think she must work late, must work hard at her job. And your eyes trail to the woman before her, your eyes take in the soft red and the kind pink that blends into the dress and that compliments her, that frames her and you think her beautiful. You think her kind, you think her loving as she reaches forward, as she holds Lexa’s hand. 

And it’s a sad thought. It’s a happy thought. It’s a bittersweet moment when you think she is happy. 

But maybe you can be selfish, if only for yourself, so you stay, linger in the shadows and watch for a quiet minute as they continue to talk softly, and perhaps you wonder what they must discuss. But you see the woman stand, you see her smile softly and you see her walk to the rear of the restaurant. And as you see Lexa’s eyes move across the wall, as you see her eyes travel over the faces in curiosity you think you have lingered long enough. You think you have lived in the shadows, a voyeur to a memory not for you to live, and so you pull your jacket tighter around your body, you pull it firmly around yourself and you turn and walk away. 

And maybe you think you will go home, live a life you’ve made for yourself, let Lexa be. But you think you hear it whispered in the back of your mind, you think you hear it cruelly. 

_Clarke?_

You ignore the cruel plea, you keep walking forward, and you shake your head, try and banish the demons that must still linger. 

_Clarke?_

You sigh once, let the breath leave you in a pained, taunting exhale and you keep moving forward, your feet feeling numb and tired to the world around you.

_Clarke?_

Why won’t it stop?

Why won’t it leave you be?

“Clarke!” you freeze. And you know that voice. You hear the pain and the desperation and the want. And so you flee. 

You hear it once more, you hear her voice carry over the wind and so you turn down a street, you let your feet carry you faster and faster and you curse your stupidity, you curse your memories and you curse your mind. 

And as you hear your name again, as you hear the ashen, desperate wail of a broken woman you think you feel the tears that fall down your cheek, and you think you feel the pained, frantic beat of your heart. 

You know you love Lexa.

 

* * *

 

You avoid the outside world, you avoid the possibility of stumbling upon Lexa again and you avoid the truth and the heartbreak that lives within you. And you think you have no right, you think you must be selfish and cowardly. And as you remember the woman she was with, you think yourself saddened at the memory that you have lost. 

And perhaps, in finding closure, in finding solace and for a chance to move on you only dragged her down with you. You only intruded and interfered in a life not your own. 

But life’s not fair is it?

 

* * *

 

It’s a quiet moment that you find yourself in, your eyes peering out the window, tracing the clouds that move by, and you think you remember things more clearly now. You know you do. And you think you should talk to Lexa, talk to her and tell her that you’re happy for her. You think she deserves that much. 

And it’s with that thought that you find a calm that settles over you, a twisted bittersweet sadness that lingers within your mind. 

But you hear it gently. You hear the soft buzz and the careful ring of your phone, and so you reach over the couch, snare it from where it lies and you look at the unfamiliar number that lingers on the screen. 

And maybe in moments after you might regret ignoring the warning that you think builds within you, might regret the churning of your mind. 

But you let your finger press the green button, you bring the phone to your ear, and you call out quietly. 

“Hello?” 

And it’s a strange thing to hear the pained sob, it’s a sweet truth and a bitter desire to hear the longing and the loss that rings out. It’s a broken thing to hear your name repeated, full of ruin and heartache. 

But you know what you hear.

You know who you hear.

And you know who you love.

“Lexa?”


	9. Chapter 9

_“Lexa,” it’s a soft whisper that pulls you from the clutches of sleep, “are you still awake?”_

_And maybe if it was Raven, maybe if it was Anya, you’d ignore the question, you’d ignore the late of the hour that she decides to disrupt. But you think she is Clarke. You think the heat of her body stirs your thoughts and brings moments of depravity to your sleeping mind. And so you roll over quietly, tuck your hands under your head and smile softly to her in the dark of your room._

_“Yeah,” you smile gently to her, “I’m awake.”_

_She rolls over to face you, her own hands tucking beneath her head, and as her eyes look to you, as her breaths even and slow she smiles once more, lets the soft of the moonlight bring a shining brilliance to life within her eyes._

_“Thank you,” she pauses for a moment, lets her eyes dart down from your own, “for letting me sleep here,” and you smile for a short while, and you think you chuckle quietly at the memory of Raven, too drunk, having sullied Clarke’s bed._

_“You’re welcome, Clarke,” she leans closer, lets her hand wander into the space between you both. And maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the way the light dances across her face. Or maybe it’s the frantic beating of your heart, but you reach out tentatively and unsure, and you let your fingers entwine with hers, and you lean closer. Just a bit, but just enough so that you feel the warmth of her body, feel the gentle caress of her breath as it brushes against your cheek. And as her eyes close, as sleep takes hold and as she smiles softly once more you whisper out to her._

_“Goodnight, Clarke.”_

_And maybe you can ignore the way your eyes trace the curve of her lip, the dip of her neck and the way her leg brushes against yours under the covers._

 

* * *

_I missed you too, Lexa_

The words ring out between the both of you and you find yourself unable to think, unable to voice the thoughts that dance and spin through your mind. And maybe you don’t notice you must be holding her hand tightly, must be crushing it in an attempt to hold her to you, to keep her from slipping away. You don’t notice until she winces for just a slight moment. 

“Sorry,” you whisper, your fingers loosening, your hand retreating back to the safety of your side of the table. 

She smiles at you then, careful and measured, “it’s ok.”

And you aren’t sure what to say. Aren’t sure how to say what you wish to. And you feel the moisture that builds slowly, you think you feel the quiet creep as it grows in the corner of your eye so you bring your finger up, brush away the tears and you let out one shaky breath. 

And when you think you have your breathing controlled, when you think you have the beating of your heart tamed you look fully at her, you let your eyes wander and you let your eyes linger. And you think she looks alive. You think she looks well, just a moment older, just a moment more lived and you think that you see a thought, see an idea that lives in the eyes, that stares back steadily. 

You open your mouth then, to voice a thought, but you think it hangs for a moment before you close it lamely, but you think she must sense the questions that linger so she smiles once, a careful encouragement for you to continue.

And as you look at her, as you take in the gold of her hair as it falls gently past her shoulders, as you let your gaze contemplate the life that glows warmly in her eyes and as you watch the breaths that come steady and calm you think it unfair. You think the thoughts that linger unkind. 

“Where’d you go, Clarke?” you think your voice breaks again, so you turn your face from her, if only so she won’t see the ruin that you think you have become, “where’d you go?” you feel the years of loss, of anger and the ages of lonely thoughts, “I waited,” you close your eyes, you hold them as tight as you can and you know you feel the tears that escape, that fall and that stain the shirt you wear, “I waited for you.”

And it hurts. You feel the crumbling of your mind and the stinging loss her absence left in its wake.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers out to you then, and you think she means it, if only by the tremble in her voice. “I was afraid,” and you turn back to her, your eyes downcast, but she leans forward for a moment, moves into the line of your sight and looks at you with a fierceness and a loss that rings just a moment too close. “I was afraid. And I needed to find myself,” and as the words leave her mouth she pauses for a time, lets her mind wander and you watch as her eyes think back, as her thoughts turn to the past. “I stayed with Raven for a while,” she smiles softly at the memories. “She helped with the therapy. She helped with the pain,” she looks to you for a measured beat. “I stayed with Bellamy too. For a few years, he helped me. Helped me to not feel so lost anymore,” she finishes quietly. 

And it hurts. You feel a pain and a resentment and an anger that dulls your mind and burns your thoughts wickedly. 

“I would have been there for you, Clarke,” you see her flinch at the bite of your words. “I _was_ there for you. For months. While you slept,” you shake your head, hold back the tears that you feel welling once more, “I was there.”

“I know,” she pauses, “I’m sorry.” 

“Why’d you leave me, Clarke?” you choke out the question, feel it burn at your throat and your mind. 

“I didn’t remember, Lexa,” you see her close her eyes for a moment, “I didn’t remember you. I didn’t remember _us,”_ and at her words you think you must choke out a quiet sob, a broken, cruel sound that wounds her as much as it does you. “I was afraid,” she whispers it again, her hand reaching out to you once more. But as her fingers brush your hand, as her fingers bring forth memories and times and moments of the past you think you feel a guilt and a truth and a cruel echo of what once was rear up in your mind. 

And so you pull your hand away, try and ignore the way your heart clenches painfully in your chest and if you think hard enough, if you let yourself accept what it is that simmers gently within your thoughts you think yourself lost in the past and trapped in the present, “I met someone,” you see an understanding that lives in her eyes, “her name’s Costia,” you whisper it to her, your lip trembling, your fingers wanting to reach out, to embrace a truth and a longing. “We’re happy,” and as the words leave your lips, as they reach Clarke’s ears you think you see an acceptance that shines gently in her eyes, “we’re happy,” you say it once more, but maybe you aren’t so sure who you try to convince. “We’re happy,” and as you think of Costia, as you think of her smile, of the freckles that sit carefully across her face, of her hair, unruly in the morning and the gentle hazel of her eyes, you think you can’t help but to see the blonde that shines brilliantly in the morning sun, or the blue that lives fiercely for you to see or the gentle curve of her cheek and the line of her nose. 

And so you say once more, “I’m happy.” 

_Are you?_

Clarke lets a tender smile play across her lips for a moment as she looks at you, and in the time you think she takes to think of what to say, of how to bridge the gap that must live between you both, you think you feel a bitter acceptance that bleeds into your mind.

“I saw you both,” you look up at her, hold her gaze for a while as you remember the desperation that had filled your mind that night, “At Gustus’ restaurant,” you look away, and you remember the broken cry you had let escape when you had seen her. “You both looked happy,” she finishes softly.

“Why didn’t you stay? Why didn’t you say something?”

“I was afraid,” she says once more, and maybe, if you look hard enough, if you search for long enough and if you let your eyes linger for just a while longer, you can see the tears that she tries to hide, the pain she tries to keep hidden from you, and perhaps, if you let yourself be selfish for just one more moment, you can wish that the words you next hear are different, are a hand reaching out for you to take. But you think and you know that life isn’t so fair. 

“I’m happy for you, Lexa.” 

 

* * *

 

_It’s a warm glow that brings your mind to wakefulness. And as you roll closer towards the unfamiliar heat by your side you think you smile for a moment. And as your fingers touch the softness that lies next to your body you think you smile just a bit wider, just a bit happier._

_“Good morning,” she whispers quietly, and you are sure she must be smiling._

_“Hi,” you answer, your voice rough and tired from sleep, your eyes bleary and your muscles a comfortable ache. You open your eyes fully then, let the gentle rising of the sun bring your vision into focus and you smile just a bit fiercer and just a bit happier when the sun dances in her hair, a careful shade of gold that holds your gaze. “Hi,” you repeat it once more._

_“Hi,” she smiles a laugh, leans closer, letting you lose yourself in the blue of her eyes._

 

* * *

 

Your feet carry you up the stairs quietly, the careful thud of your shoes brushing against each step as they ring out into the empty space that surrounds you, and, if just for now, you feel a quiet, deadened beat that keeps your heart in rhythm, that keeps your legs moving and your mind focused on the past. And maybe, as you reach the third floor, as you walk down the hallway you think a gentle sadness must linger around you, must squeeze you tightly and must taunt you in your sleep. And you know life isn’t fair, you know it to be cruel and unkind. But perhaps you just need to roll with it, absorb the blows you feel and move forward. Even if you don’t want to.

You reach your door then, and as the key scrapes against the lock you pause for a moment, you let the sound of the quiet music bleed through the door and reach your ears. You rest your head against the cool wood, let the cold bite of it steady your thoughts and ground your body and you wait. You wait until you think your heart settles, you wait until your thoughts turn from Clarke and you wait until you think you have stayed out in the hallway for too long, have let your thoughts wander too far. 

Walking into your apartment is a strange, uncomfortable thing, and as you walk further, as you see the sun that shines lowly through the windows, you trace the shadows that fall, and you follow them until your gaze reaches Costia, herself standing quietly before you. And she smiles for a moment, lets it linger for a while.

“Hi,” she says quietly, and you think her eyes steady and uncertain as they trace the lines that must etch themselves across your face.

“Hi,” you whisper it back to her.

“How was it?” she moves closer, her arms hanging lonely by her side. 

And maybe as she moves closer, maybe when her fingers reach out, maybe when her arms wrap themselves around your waist and maybe, just for a small moment you let yourself forget what it is that burns dully in your mind. But when you lean into her touch, lean into the beating of her heart and lean into the whispered words that brush against your ear, you think life unfair and cruel. And so, as she squeezes just a bit tighter, you think you feel your chest clench painfully and your vision blur with a hated wetness, and as the tears fall, as they muddy the shirt that clings to her shoulders you think you choke out a pained, quiet, wretched noise.

“it’s ok, Lexa,” she soothes, her hand finding yours, “it’s ok.” 

 

* * *

 

Costia moves you to the bedroom quietly, the faint hum of the music she had playing a gentle cradle for your tired mind, and as she undresses you, as she strips away the too tight clothes that you wear she brushes her lips against your face, lets her whispered words wend their way through your mind.

And as she dresses you in softer clothes, warmer clothes, gentler clothes, she pulls you into bed, tucking the covers over you, all the while whispering out to you. 

And it’s sad. It’s cruel and broken but you roll over, you turn into the warmth of her body and you think you break against the beating of her heart and the gentle embrace of her arms. And as the tears continue their own path you fall into a fitful, unrested slumber.

 

* * *

 

“Lexa,” you think you press closer into her, hang on to the sleep you think you must have been experiencing. “Lexa,” you hear it again, and you feel the gentle tugging on your hair, “Lexa,” you whimper quietly, “wakeup,” you think you hear the smile that lingers faintly in her words. 

And as you stir, as you grumble softly and protest weakly you hear her whisper out again, “do you want dinner?” 

“No,” it’s rough and forced out gently, “I’m not hungry.” 

“Are you sure?” and you are certain that from her tone her eyes must worry for a moment, and you feel her fingers brush against you arm. 

And so you nod, and you open your eyes, let them find Costia’s and you smile weakly at her. “Just stay here. With me,” and your words reach out to her, reach out to bridge the gap you refuse to think must be forming between you both. 

“Ok,” she smiles, but maybe it comes just a bit more mournful as she moves closer, letting her body press against yours. “Are you ok?” she asks, her fingers carding gently through your hair. 

And maybe you aren’t so sure anymore, maybe you aren’t so convinced that you are ok. That you can continue on this pained and broken path you find yourself travelling. And maybe you know it is unfair. And so you press your lips to her neck, let them linger and heat the skin you find. 

“I’m ok,” you press closer, more firmly.

“Lexa,” she breathes it out and maybe you can imagine the way the name falls, the way it brings forth flashes blonde and blue. 

You don’t realise that you must be crying softly again, your face cradled against her neck, until she pulls your head away, until her thumb brushes gently across your cheek. 

“Lexa,” she whispers out to you, her eyes kind in the fading light. “It’s ok,” she takes hold of your hand, squeezes it firmly, “I’m here. I’m here _now,_ ” and she holds your gaze, her eyes pleading, hoping and longing. 

“I’m sorry,” and as the words leave your lips you think you know what you apologise for, and you think that maybe Costia does too.

“It’s ok, Lexa.” 

But you think it isn’t, and so you look into her eyes and hold her gaze, “I love you,” and you are sure you feel it, you are sure you feel the pull in your heart and the truth in your words. And so you press into her, let your hand grip her waist, “I love you,” you repeat it, just a bit more forcefully. “You mean so much to me,” you press your lips to hers, and your hand wanders under her shirt, and your legs tangle with hers. 

And you gasp quietly as she presses forward, as she grips your shoulders and as she rolls you over. And as she sits up, as she looks down at you she smiles softly. 

But as she lifts her shirt, as she lets it fall and as she lets the soft light of a lonely moon skip against her skin and dance across the swell of her bosom and the heaving of her chest, as she leans forward, capturing your lips in hers, you think you feel a wet trail that winds and twists down her cheeks. And as her hand wanders lower, as you gasp into her mouth and as she bears down upon your body, you aren’t so sure that the tears that cling to your cheeks come only from you. 

 

* * *

 

You aren’t sure how long you lie in bed, you aren’t sure how long it is until you fall asleep, and you aren’t so sure how long it is that you sleep. But you wake to the quiet of a dark night and an empty bed. And as you awaken, as your eyes open slowly, you let out a shallow breath and you try and steady the beating of your heart. You lean into Costia then, only to find her place by your side cold and lonely. 

You lie for a short moment, just enough that you are sure you steady yourself and then you sit, you rise and you search for the clothes you had discarded. And as you leave the bed you try and ignore the sting of the night as it chills your flesh. And so you tread quietly, guided by the careful glow of the outside world and you think you hear the faint whisper of music that swells down the hall. You follow the sound until you near the kitchen, and as you slow your feet, as you pause at the entrance you see her, a lonely silhouette to the glow of the world that lives outside. 

Costia sits at the table, the green mug held gently in her hands, her eyes focused somewhere out the window. You watch for a moment as she brings the mug to her lips, as she holds it for a short minute and you watch as she inhales the careful scent of the tea, and as she brings it to her lips you hear her hum out a whispered breath and a quiet sigh. 

She must see you in the reflection though, must see you standing behind her, leaning against the wall so she smiles, her reflection carrying the lonely expression and so you step forward, let your feet take you to her side and you sit in the chair next to her. 

You sit in silence for a while, the warmth of her body brushing against your shoulder occasionally, the lifting of the mug to her lips the only motion to disturb the quiet you find yourselves in. But you think the silence must hang for too long, must hang too heavy and too lonely around you both so you take a breath, hold it for just a moment before releasing. 

“Are you ok?” you whisper out to her. But you think she mustn’t be. You think she must be hurting, must hold a sadness within her own mind. If only because she doesn’t quite meet your gaze when she turns to you, and when she smiles it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. 

“I’m happy for you,” and you think you feel your heart clench painfully in your chest. You think it must beat terribly and brokenly. “I am,” she pauses, leans against you, if only to steady herself. “I really, really am.” 

And maybe you don’t quite like where this conversation must be going. 

“Costia,” you whisper it out, reaching out to her quietly. But her head shakes gently, her hair brushing against your cheek. 

“I love you, Lexa,” she raises her head, looks into your eyes firmly, her own shining radiant in the moon light. “I love you terribly,” her hand reaches out, brushes against your cheek. 

And you aren’t quite sure what to say, what to do and what to feel. But you know you couldn’t say enough. Couldn’t do enough. But you do feel. But maybe it isn’t enough anymore. 

And you think your lip must tremble slightly, that your eyes must water gently, “I love you, Costia.” you whisper it out, hold her gaze and hope and wish for her to see the truth of your words.

And you watch as her hand reaches down, as it snakes into her pocket. And you watch as she pulls her hand away, her fist closed carefully around what she grasps and you watch as she raises her hand between you both. And you watch as her fingers open, as the light catches the metal rings as they sit quietly in her palm. 

“I found them. I didn’t mean to. I—” she pauses for a moment, looks away from you for just a second. “I was cleaning. And I found them—”

“Cos—” You go to interrupt.

To tell her that everything is ok. That you still love her. 

But you think that maybe only one of those confessions remains a truth. 

She shakes her head gently, quietly ending the words you try to say, “I didn’t know you still had them,” and you are sure you hear her voice tremble and hear the aching of her heart.

And so she meets your eyes once more. 

“Do you still love her?” 


	10. Chapter 10

_You push open the door, a careful chime ringing out lowly through the store. And maybe you should be used to this by now, maybe you should find it familiar. But you think you dread the time when you do find yourself used to this routine. And you think you will dread the stage when you find this moment familiar in its action. And so your eyes trail over the flowers that line the store shelves, you trace the reds in their vividness and the blues and the greens in their calming, smooth hues. And you follow the oranges and whites as they lead you further and further into the cool of the quiet building. And you find yourself unable to choose. Unable to really focus on what to pick, on which ones you think she’d like. Which one’s you feel would bring a moment of life to her sleeping mind._

_And maybe you hate being indecisive. And maybe you hate not knowing._

_And so you stand before the rows of flowers, you stand silently, let your eyes move from stem to leaf to petal and you try, if only for a short while, to imagine the way she mights smile, the way her eyes might dance and the way her lip might curve._

_“Not sure which ones to get?” you start gently at the intrusion to your thoughts. But maybe you welcome it, if only because it stops you from spirally too far in public. And so you shrug once._

_“I don’t know,” you whisper it quietly to the person besides you, “I’ve never been good at choosing which to get.” And you hear a hum from besides you, and so you turn your head. And your eyes meet a soft face, and an inquisitive look._

_“What’s the occasion?”_

_And maybe you should brush the stranger off, say that you want to be alone, that you don’t need help. But you know that’s a lie. You’ve missed the company of a quiet embrace and the gentle press of a soothing touch._

_You’ve missed her._

_And so you shrug, chew on your cheek for a moment._

_“My wife’s in hospital,” and you say it to the flowers, afraid, uncertain, unwilling to look the stranger in the eye._

_“I’m sorry,” there’s a quiet pause, a gentle ticking of time as you think the stranger thinks of what to say. “What does she like?”_

_“Everything,” and maybe you should think the answer dull, think the answer cliched and stupid. But you think it a truth. If only because Clarke paints with the riches of a red full of life and energy, full of anguish and soothing warmth. And you think she paints with the depths of a blue, just like the hues of her eyes as they shine fiercely in the sun. You think she paints with the strength of the golds and yellows, just like the blonde of her hair and how it could blind you and guide you and dance gentle and quiet in a morning breeze. And maybe you think you consider the options for too long. Maybe you think yourself too colourful in your thoughts, too pathetic and lost in your metaphors. But maybe you think Clarke is everything. Or was. And so you look once more to your side, let your eyes linger for a moment on the woman that stands besides you. “Everything,” you repeat, and maybe you think of the tense you should use, think of the times that no longer live in the present, and the memories you hold onto in the past, “she liked everything.”_

_“I like the red ones,” she pauses, looks over to the red flowers as they sit quietly, the sun a gentle pink that catches on the petals through the window. “I’m not very good with flowers either,” she smiles apologetically, and maybe you let your eye trace the curve of her mouth, maybe you let your gaze trace her hair that curls and sways and the hazel of her eyes that look warmly back at you. “They’re warm. They’re alive. Sort of calming, you know?” and maybe you do, “And I like the yellow ones,” and you follow her eyes as they look upon the soft yellows that sit nearby, “they’re not too bright. But they’re bright enough to tell you that there’s a chance for something more, something new, something different. That they’ve got a bit more life left to live. That you shouldn’t give up yet.”_

_“Yeah,” you think it must come out a whisper, come out a strained, broken, tired breath._

_And she smiles back, shrugs once, and maybe your eyes follow the rising of her shoulder, the fidgeting of her feet by your side._

_And so you look back up to her, let your mind wander for only a moment._

_“Thank you…” and you pause, just for a moment, but enough for her to realise you don’t know her name._

_“Costia,” she says._

_And so you smile once, but maybe you think your smile doesn’t quite meet your eyes, doesn’t quite live long enough. And maybe you think she understands. And maybe you know she does from her own smile that lingers for a careful moment._

_“Thank you, Costia.”_

 

* * *

Your mind often wanders far when you sleep. You think it must travel to places far gone and too distant for your waking thoughts to comprehend. If only because you never quite remember. Never can grasp the moments before they slip through your mind. But you think you can feel the constant terrible ache and the constant frightful truths that linger and plague your mind. But you think that you must be cognisant enough to remember the moments when you dream of Clarke. And the memories you recall with Costia. And so you wake. You wake to the gentle breathing next to you and the rapid beating of your heart. And maybe you can excuse the lack of a warm body pressed against yours, can excuse the lack of an arm that often clings to you through the night, if only because it feels a moment warmer, the night less cool, less chilled than the cruel winter nights you have lived.

But you think you have lied to yourself for too long. And you think that the space that lives between you both is more than just a night more warm.

And so you roll onto your side quietly, tuck your hands beneath your head and you let your eyes fall upon Costia as she sleeps. You watch as her breaths come evenly and tired, you watch as her chest rises gently, and you watch as her hair twitches just a bit with each quiet exhale. And maybe if you squint for a moment, maybe if you let the light of an outside world fall across her face, you think you can see the wet that clings against her lashes, that crown her eyes and that wound your mind. 

And so your hand reaches out quietly, and you let it sit for an awkward while between you both and for a breath, for a gentle ticking of time you think you should retract it, should pull it back to your side of the bed. But maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe you should be brave, be stronger than you think you are. Be less of a coward than you know yourself to be. 

But you think you are all those things. And so instead you whisper out to Costia through the darkness that swims between you both.  

_I’m sorry._

And you think that in another life, in another time. In a moment where Clarke and you never met, where maybe you and Costia met first. In a world less cruel, less unfair that you would have been happy. You think you know so. And you think Costia deserves more. 

_I’m sorry, Costia._

 

* * *

You think you must lie by her side for a while. You think you lie by her side for long enough that you steal the warmth from the bed. And so you rise slowly, you let the sheets fall from your body and you step out of the room you both share. And as you dress you let the cool of the floor and the careful warmth of the night bring cool breaths to your lungs. And you know you won’t find sleep anymore. You know your mind won’t let you wander back into a slumber so you walk to the kitchen, the light of the outside world a guide and a hand that pulls you forward. 

And as the water boils you peer into it, let it scold your face and burn your mind. And as the warmth of the cup sears your fingers and licks at your palm you embrace it. And as you sit by the window, as the harshness of the floor bites into your body you lean into it, let it ground you and sit comfortably by your side. 

You know you must have peered out the window for hours, for lifetimes, for too many nights to count. And you are sure that lives have been lived, thoughts have been born and have died and have existed in your mind. And so you watch the quiet changing of the lights below you. And as the red turns to a piercing green you bring the cup to your lips, you let the scents of a too strong coffee burn away the sleep that still lingers and you let the boil of the liquid tear at your throat. And as the green fades to the amber of a soon to be red you aren’t quite sure what you think anymore.

 

* * *

 

_You don’t think you’ve been this nervous in a very long time. You think the frantic beating of your heart unfamiliar in its rhythm. And you know it uncertain, afraid to face what might come next. But maybe that’s what you need. So you take one last breath, you hold it for just a bit too long, until it borders on a burn just past comfortable and then you exhale, your feet taking you to the door. And maybe you pause for just a moment, for just long enough to reconsider your actions, to do something different. But you think you’ve grown used to lying to yourself, so you dismiss the thoughts, square your shoulders and flatten the dress you wear one last time. And then you knock, your knuckles hitting the door with a gentle timidness._

_The door opens for you quickly, and maybe you smile at the realisation that she must have been waiting, must have been just as eager as you._

_“Hi,” you smile just a bit warmer when your eyes take in what stands before you. And you think you like the way the gentle red clings to her body. You think you like the soft brown of her eyes and the curling of her hair._

_“Hi,” she whispers back. And maybe you get caught up in the moment, maybe you get lost in the thoughts, maybe you can forget for tonight. And so you reach out, take her hand in yours, squeeze her fingers for a moment. And you think yourself happy._

_“You look beautiful,” and you think you like the way she blushes, you think you like the way her nose scrunches bashfully._

_“You do too,” and you smirk. And you know yourself happy._

_“So,” she voices, and you turn to look at her as you walk to your car, “where is it that w’re going?”_

_“A bar,” and you laugh at the way the frown spreads across her face, and you watch as Costia looks down at the dress she wears._

_“Aren’t we overdressed?” and you see her glance over her shoulder, eye the door she just locked._

_“No,” you squeeze her hand once more, “It’s a fancy bar. I promise.”_

_And so she turns back to you, smiles for a moment._

_“Ok.”_

_The drive isn’t far, just a short while, and perhaps you can be forgiven for the nerves you feel, for the rhythm that beats and that comes rapid and eager, if only because you think Costia must feel the same by the fingers that twitch every so often in your direction. And as you glance to Costia, as you watch her eyes dart from the road to your own eyes, you think you smile, and you know you do when she smiles back. And as you turn your eyes back to the road, your hands resting comfortably on the wheel you feel her lean over quickly, you feel her fingers brush against your knee and you feel the gentle press of lips against your cheek. And maybe you laugh as she pulls away before you can reciprocate._

_“What was that for?”_

_“I just wanted to,” she whispers, a smile dancing in her voice._

 

* * *

You think your eyes tired and sore from the time you have spent reading the reports. And you know your mind must be focused elsewhere, must be sifting through problems and actions and words not of your work. And you know Anya must be noticing, must be aware, if only from the way her eyes narrow at you over the desk, the way her finger taps against the file she holds and the way her eyes look from the words before her and then up to you. 

“Lunch is soon,” she says abruptly, her eyes looking to the clock that sits on your desk.

“How many more do we have to get through?” you ask her, your gaze falling to the reports still in her lap. 

“Two,” she answers, her thumb carding against the edge of the paper. 

“We can make it,” and you see her shrug for a moment, see her eyes look back to the report she reads.

 

* * *

 

_“So,” Anya begins, “Costia,” she pauses for a moment, “she know about Clarke?”_

_“Yeah,” you say, and you think back to when you met her for the first time. “She helped me pick out flowers for her,” and you see Anya raise an eyebrow slowly._

_“Ah.”_

_And you watch as her thoughts move through her mind for a moment._

_“I didn’t ask her out while Clarke was still sleeping,” and you see Anya’s eyes narrow for a moment at your wording. And maybe you think you need to convince Anya of your actions. And maybe you need to keep lying to yourself. “Clarke wanted me to move on.”_

_“I know,” she says, “that’s not what I’m getting at,” and she pauses again, and you think she considers how to word the thoughts, and not if she should or shouldn’t say the thoughts she must be having, and you know you enjoy her bluntness, if only because it seems a breath of fresh air to the macabre and somber thoughts that dig into your mind so frequently._

_“Does Costia know that you and Clarke are still technically married?” and maybe you grimace. Just for a moment._

_“I—” and as you go to respond you think you must realise that perhaps you haven’t quite discussed with Costia where things lie. “No,” you settle for the truth._

_“But she knows that you and Clarke were married?” and you nod your head._

_Anya eyes you carefully, “and she knows that Clarke was in a coma for more than a year?” and you nod once more, “and that she bailed on you after she woke up?” and perhaps from the venom that lives in her words, and the sting that you think you see across Anya’s face that she also feels slighted by the loss of Clarke._

_“Why?” you ask then, unsure of where Anya wishes to take the conversation._

_“I just want to know if Costia knows where you’re at,” and she pins you with a critical look, “it wouldn’t be fair to her if she didn’t.”_

_And as you think Anya’s words over you think them a truth._

_“I’ll talk to her.”_

 

* * *

You sit in the cafe not far from where you work, your hand holding a cup that sits just a bit too warm in your grasp and you watch as Anya bites into a sandwich, a soft moan of approval falling from her mouth. 

And you think she must see you eyeing her because she shrugs briefly, “I’m hungry,” and maybe you smile at her careless motion. “Are you going to finish that?” she asks then, her eyes falling to the half eaten sandwich that lies on your own plate. 

“No,” you say, already pushing it towards Anya. And as you watch her snatch it up, as you watch her take one more large bite you think you smile for just a moment before a thought takes hold. “You aren’t pregnant, are you?” And you laugh for a short second. But as you see the shock that flashes across Anya’s face, and as you see her hand freeze half way to her mouth suddenly you think your eyes widen, you think your mouth falls open. 

“Anya…” you whisper it out, only to be met by a second of awkward silence.

“Nah,” she laughs then, “I’m just fucking with you.” 

And maybe the relieved exhale that you breathe out is a bit too obvious by the way Anya glares at you. 

“I just started this new workout thing,” she gestures at herself briefly, “can’t eat before lunch time.” 

“That sounds counterproductive,” you say then, but you’re merely met by another forceful shrug. 

You let a quiet fall between you both then, Anya content to keep eating, yourself happy to sip from the cup you still hold in your hand. But as the moments tick by, as your thoughts are allowed to wander, your mind turns to Costia, turns to the words she had said. And maybe you aren’t so sure it was an argument. And you think it wasn’t, if only because there were no shouted words, no raging of emotions. But maybe you need to address what lives between you both. And maybe you need to talk to her about Clarke once more _._ But maybe, this time, perhaps you aren’t so sure what will happen. 

“So,” you look up at Anya as she wipes her mouth, “Costia,” she says, leaning back in her seat, “Clarke,” she finishes. 

And you hum a response, your eyes holding Anya’s gaze. 

“Is Costia ok with Clarke coming back?” 

And you think of the words Costia has said in the past, of understanding, of wanting you to be happy. But you think yourself unsure.

“I don’t know,” you say, “I don’t think so,” and you look away for a moment, think of the question she had asked you. “She asked if I still loved her.” 

“Do you?”

And maybe you’re tired of it. Maybe you’re tired of the constant pulling of your emotions and the constant ache that lives and bruises your mind. 

And do you still love Clarke? 

“Yes,” you know you do. You think you never stopped.

“What are you going to do?” 

“I don’t know, Anya,” and you don’t. You think it incredibly unfair. And you think yourself woefully unprepared. “I don’t know,” you repeat quietly.

“I think you need to talk to her. To tell her how you feel. To tell her _what_ you feel,” and Anya leans closer, makes sure you hold her gaze. “You need to tell Costia what you feel for Clarke.” 

 

* * *

 

_You tread quietly to her bedroom door, careful in your steps lest you break the small silence she has built around herself, and you wince softly, just for a moment, when you knock the cup and the plate you hold in your hands. And as you enter the room, as you see the lump under the covers you let a small smile creep its way across your face. And maybe you feel a touch guilty when you hear a quiet whimper._

_“Costia,” you whisper it out to her, “are you awake?” and you think you smile for just a moment before worrying your lip when you hear the soft whimper of a reply._

_“I got your tea,” you sit gently by the bed, “and the chocolates,” you finish, placing the cup and the plate down carefully, your hand coming to rest atop her head._

_“Thank you,” she whispers out._

_“Can I do anything else?” you smile again as you see her nose scrunch up briefly._

_“No,” she rolls into your thigh, her head resting against it, “I hate cramps,” she finishes quietly, a hand reaching out to find the chocolates you had brought, and so you bring the plate closer to her._

_“Do you want the heat pack?” you prod gently, your fingers carding through her hair. And you smile at the soft hum of an answer. “I’ll be right back,” and you press your lips to her forehead briefly, “I won’t be long,” you finish as her fingers reach out for you._

 

* * *

It’s late, and you are sure the moon must hang heavy and quiet in the sky, but as your feet take you up the stairs, the quiet thud a rhythm that steadies the thoughts that spin and dance a frantic beat through your mind you think you don’t notice the darkness that creeps in from the outside world. And as you near your front door you think you hear the gentle lull of a careful song that plays, and you think a smile lingers on your lips as your key scrapes against the lock. 

And you think walking into the apartment is a surreal thing, you think it strange and familiar as you pass Costia’s shoes that rest by the door, and you smile just briefly at the way yours find a place by hers. You shrug off your jacket then, let it hang and as you unbutton the first few buttons of your shirt you think you breathe out just a bit more freely, just a bit more calmly, despite the beating of your heart and the words you know you must share with Costia. 

You follow the sound of the music, you follow the gentle light that comes from the kitchen and you follow the shadows that fall against the walls and the floor. And you find Costia sitting at the table, her fingers clenched tightly before her, the green mug resting against her hand. And you think you smile for a moment as your eyes see the light from the outside that shines carefully against her, that frames her body a gentle silhouette and that sets her hair ablaze, that warms the colour of her skin and the depths of her eyes. 

“Hi,” you whisper it out to her.

“Hi,” she repeats gently.

“Costia—” but she cuts you off with a raising of her hand, and it’s just a careful motion, just a slight quirking of her fingers, but you halt the words you wish to say. If only so that she can voice her thoughts, if only she can speak her mind.  

“We’ve been together for three years, Lexa,” and you see the way her lips quiver for a moment and you think you don’t like the way your heart thumps and the way the blood beats just a moment louder in your ears. “We have a life.” 

“Cos—”

“Please, Lexa. Just— Just let me continue,” and she stands carefully, and as your eyes take in the clothes she wears you think you feel your heart clench and your eyes sting. And you know she hasn’t dressed to relax, hasn’t dressed for the night. 

“I—” she looks away for a moment, “I thought that if I gave you time, if you had time. If _we_ had time, that we could be happy. And we were, Lexa. We _were_ happy.”

“We still are, Costia,” and you think your voice comes out a broken, wounded whisper. 

“No, Lexa. We aren’t. And I understand. I do,” she blinks quickly, her head turned from you, a careful shadow falling across her face, “I really, really do,” and you take a step forward, your hand reaching out to her, “I’m happy for you,” she whispers then. And she takes a steadying breath, pauses for a moment, letting her mind catch up to the raging emotions you are sure must be living within her.

“I think I was afraid, Lexa. Afraid to consider what Clarke meant to you. And maybe it was selfish. Maybe it’s still selfish, but I thought that you could learn to live with it. Not move on, and I can accept and I understand that you might never be able to move on. But I wished so, so terribly that you could learn to live with the way things were.”

You blink away the tears you are sure must be forming. 

Costia takes a step closer then, the space between you just a few small paces, and she smiles just for a moment as her eyes meet yours.

“You still love her.”

She lets the words hang in the space between you both as she holds your gaze, her eyes shining quietly in the moonlight, a solitary shadow falling across her face. And you think that in the moments it takes you to consider her words, to consider what you will next say is answer enough for her. And you think as she looks away, as she brushes a trembling finger cross her eyes, that she is a vision of heart ache and of a quiet loss.

“I’m sorry,” it comes out a whisper, threadbare and broken as it falls from your lips. And you are. You are so, so very sorry, “I’m—” and you can’t bear to look her in the eyes, can’t bear to face the pain you’ve caused her. “I’m so, so sorry,” and so you look away, let your eyes stare into the careful burning of a lamp and you imagine it searing the memories from your mind, searing away the years of agony and longing until all that’s left for you to sift through are the broken remains of a selfish woman. And you realise that you cry, that your chest hurts cruelly and that your shoulders shake mournfully and that your mind crumbles when you feel her hands rest softly upon your shoulders, when you feel the gentle press of her lips against your forehead and the soft breath that brushes your cheek.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper it again and it’s soft and a truth and a prose full of a tired ache and so you close your eyes. You hold them shut, as tightly as you possibly can and you think you can feel the years that Costia stayed by your side slip and fall from your grasp. 

And so you feel the warmth of her hands caress your cheek, her fingers wiping away the tears that wend a frail path down your face.

“Please, Lexa. _Please…_ Look at me,” and you can’t bear to hear the pain in her voice, can’t bear to cause her to suffer and to hurt, so you open your eyes and you look at her. And when your gaze meets hers you see it full of tears, full of pain, of understanding and acceptance, and so you whisper it once more, if only to ease her suffering.

“I’m sorry.” 

And her lip trembles, and you know her heart breaks as she whispers kindly back to you. 

“I know.” 

And it ruins you. It breaks you and splinters you and you feel an ache that writhes and burns cruelly in the recesses of your mind. 

And maybe, if only for a moment, if only for the lonely passing of a star through the night’s sky you think you feel the unkind truth of your emotions. And you think it so, so unfair. And so you choke out one last time. 

“I’m so, so sorry, Costia.” 

And she smiles at you. And you think she understands. And you know she accepts.

“I know, Lexa,” her voice is soft, and gentle, and it graces your ears and you think it sorrowful, mournful and full of love, her thumb a constant soothing arc against your cheek. 

You watch as her eyes hold your tired gaze, as they let you see the years you shared, and you see the careful smile that lifts the corner of her mouth. 

“You deserve happiness, Lexa,” it’s a quiet pause, a moment for her to gather her thoughts, to hold herself steady, and you watch as she blinks away the tears.

“But I do too. And I can’t stay here,” it’s a sad smile that lives in her eyes, that crinkles them at the corners and that speaks of a time now faded and lost. 

“I can’t stay here with you. Not when she’s here, ” and she pauses, wipes away a tear as it falls down her cheek and she takes a shaky breath, her smile watery and bittersweet, of a tender sadness, of a lonely mind, and so she places her hand on your chest, above the beating of your heart, and you think she must feel the tired and quiet pull of its rhythm. 

And so she whispers out to you. 

“Not when Clarke’s still here.” 

And it hurts. It’s muted, and a pained acceptance that you feel fumbling its way through your mind and through your veins.

“I still love you, Costia,” you whisper it quietly to her, your eyes refusing to break her gaze. But as her lip trembles and her chin quivers you see the tears that fall and you know she deserves so, so much more.

She smiles then, and it lingers for just a little while across her lips. Yet you think, if only in the dark of your mind, if only by the shadows that fall across her face, from the pale light that sings quietly in her gaze that perhaps the smile doesn’t quite touch her eyes anymore. 

And so the words she whispers out to you next.

You think them unfair. 

But you think them a painful, bittersweet truth.

“Sometimes you can’t help but love two people, Lexa,” and she pauses, lets a tear fall quietly down her cheek before she whispers out to you, “and sometimes, even if you try so very, very hard, life isn’t fair.”

And she breathes out for a careful passing of time, the music that moves quietly through the room a silent hymn, a careful prose and a gentle sanctuary for the aching of your heart. And as she ushers away another tear that falls with a tender brush of her thumb, as she presses her lips to your cheek one more time, you lean into it.

Just once more.

“I’m not the one you love the most.”


	11. Chapter 11

_“You can stay here, Costia,” you pause for just a moment, for just long enough that the shaking of your voice steadies enough that you can continue without fear of breaking once more, “you can stay until you find a place,” and you think your voice tapers off into a quiet, pained whisper._

_“I think we both know that’d be a mistake,” and you think you hear the quiet tremor that still lives in her own voice._

_“Where will you go?”_

_“I’ll stay with my sister.”_

_“Are you sure?”_

_“Yeah,” and you hear her take a steady breath, “Once that’s done can I come by and pick up my stuff?”_

_“Yes, of course, Costia—“ and maybe you stop yourself from continuing, from saying that she’s welcome to drop by whenever. If only because it still feels like she lives with you, still calls where you find yourself home._

_The silence hangs for a long moment, the beating of your heart and the careful breaths you hear enough to tell you she still lingers._

_“Thank you,” she voices after a moment, and it comes just a bit more steady than before, “goodbye, Lexa,” and maybe you feel a wetness linger a moment too long in the corner of your eye._

_“Goodbye, Costia.”_

_And so she whispers to you once more._

_“Take care.”_

 

* * *

You don’t think waking to the frantic beat of your heart is a cycle you will ever be used to, ever feel comfortable living. But as you lie in your bed you can’t help but let your thoughts wander, can’t help but let your mind twist and bend too far into the past. And maybe you feel the cold space that lies next to you when you stretch your hand out, maybe you feel the empty spot that hangs quietly by your side. And maybe you wish for a time less broken. Maybe you wish for a life less pained. 

Maybe you wish for something different.

You pull the covers from you then, let the warmth of the night cling carefully around your body and so you move through the apartment. And as you follow the shadows that fall and drape themselves across the walls, a lonely guide that takes you forward, you think of memories gone, of times past and moments lived. And maybe you’re just a bit too morose. Maybe you’re just a bit too selfish. 

But you embrace it. 

You embrace the burn of the steam as the water boils and you embrace the heat of the cup as it stabs into your hands. And as you pad to the window and as the light of the outside night shines softly you think you smile a lonely, broken thing. 

And so you sit down quietly, you let the floor in all its cold embrace bring a steadiness to your mind. And so you watch the cars that brave the dark of the night as they pass, you watch the clouds as they sail and drift through the sky. And you watch the changing of the lights. You watch the gentle red as it signals a truth, a warning, a gentle reproach. And as your eyes follow the green that skirts and dances and lives brightly, full of a quiet energy you think you smile for just a moment. And maybe you don’t feel so pained when the green shifts to the yellow of a soon to be end. Maybe you don’t feel so sad when the yellow takes hold. And maybe you don’t feel so tired when you think it a calming, careful hue. One that speaks of a change to come, that calls to a time yet to be remembered. One still to be lived.

And as the lights change, as they shift and move from one colour to the next you think them a quiet comfort in the night. If only because you think them a steady pattern. 

And so you bring the cup to your lips and you let the liquid burn for a moment in your mouth and as you let the pull of the lights bring your mind further into a quiet revelry you know you won’t find sleep again. 

And so you let yourself sit and you let yourself be, just for now, a quiet sentinel by your window, the warmth you hold in your hands a lonely companion for the nights where you think you linger too long in a past, too long in a gentle memory that drifts just out of reach.

 

* * *

 

_The drink burns your throat, stings your nostrils and fouls your breath. But you’re sure you couldn’t drink enough. Couldn’t burn away the pain and the moments of anger. And maybe you’ll regret your actions later. Maybe you’ll despise the lonesome mess you know you will become. And you think you’ll find yourself a stumbling mess in the morning, a pathetic mixing of chaos and confusion when you reach for her in the night, when you roll into a warmth that no longer rests by your side._

_And maybe you just want to forget._

_You reach for the glass again, and maybe for a moment you think you see more than one rest before you, and maybe just for a moment your fingers slip through the glass, can’t quite grasp what  you see before you. And you think you glare and scowl a fierce, broken thing when Gustus reaches out, when he snatches the glass from your table._

_“I’m—” you pause, look up at him through the blurring of your eyes, “I’m not finished.”_

_“I’m cutting you off.”_

_And you think you must seem a pitied thing when he sighs softly, when he sits before you._

_“I’m not— not finished.”_

_“Lexa—” and you reach out, poke him on the forehead, and maybe you miss, maybe your finger merely hangs awkwardly to the side of his head._

_“It’s Miss Woods,” you pause just for a moment, “remember?”_

_“How’d you get here?”_

_And maybe it takes you longer than it should to recall just how you got to the restaurant._

_“I drived here,” and maybe you’ve drunk too much if only because your grammar must be failing._

_“I’m taking you home,” he says then, already beginning to rise, already taking the jacket you had hung off the chair._

_“Nah, Gus— No,” you think you try and push him away, try and wriggle from his grasp._

_But you know it to be a futile, pointless exercise._

_You don’t quite remember how you get home. You don’t quite remember Gustus carrying your limp body up the stairs and you don’t quite remember him holding your hair back as you empty your stomach._

_And you think you’re thankful that you don’t quite remember Gustus trying to avert his eyes as he tries you have you change into more comfortable clothes. And you know you’re thankful that you don’t remember as you sob into his chest, as he tucks you into bed and as he runs a soothing hand over your head as you fall into a not so soothing, not so gentle slumber._

_And when you wake in the morning, when you find him sleeping on your couch, you think yourself guilty._

_And you know yourself alone._

 

* * *

Your feet strum steadily across the ground, your legs carrying you further and further. And as you race past the people that brave the early morning you let them blur into the reds and yellows and greens of colour, of life and change. And as your eyes glimpse the splashes of rusted browns as they fall from tree limbs, and as you see the yellow that carpets the ground you think you feel a quiet thought drift and pull slowly through your mind. 

And you feel your chest rise and fall steadily, you feel the gentle pull of your thigh and maybe you’re content in the way it burns just a bit less, in the way it stretches a bit more before you feel the sting.

And as you round the corner, as the rising of the sun settles into your eyes you think you avert them for a moment, you think you try and shield them from the piercing heat that lingers too long and too bright in your vision. 

And maybe you think you’re ready for a chance. 

Maybe you think yourself ready for a change.

 

* * *

 

You brush away a strand of hair that clings to your cheek as you reach your door, and as your key scrapes into the lock, as you push open the door you think that maybe, just for a moment, that the sting and the quiet of the apartment lingers just a moment less than it used to. But maybe you think you can hold onto a memory, hold onto a dream or a moment yet to be lived. And it’s not too far to the bathroom. Just a quick right turn, just a small walk down the hallway, and as you pass the linen cupboard you snatch a towel, and as you peel off your top you think, if only out of habit, if only out of a memory, that you glance past your shoulder, glance at the kitchen as it sits silently behind you. 

And maybe it still stings just a bit. 

 

* * *

 

 

You let the water steam and warm the bathroom. You let the steady beat of the shower soothe your mind and steady the beating of your heart. And as you step under it, as you let the heat burn away the exhaustion and the sweat of a morning too tiring you think you smile. Just for a bit. Just for long enough that it feels just a bit like a lie. 

And you let the lather build, you let it sting your eyes and you let it wash from your hair. And as you turn to face the heat of the water you think you enjoy this routine. You think you enjoy the pain and the heat and the steady pressure. If only because it feels less lonesome. If only because you feel less alone. 

But maybe you’re ready for that chance.

Maybe you’re ready for the change. 

And maybe you smile. 

Just for a moment.

 

* * *

 

_It’s cruel and taunting. It’s a unfair and unkind._

_And maybe you think you torment yourself too much. Maybe you punish yourself more than you deserve. But maybe you’re selfish. And so you let the light that shines softly against the cool metal of the bands catch your eye. You let the light flash and dance and curl around the curve of the rings as they rest in your palm._

_And you think you hate the memories they bring forth. And you know it pains you and tears quietly into your mind. And you think that it builds, you think it increases in tempo until you feel a steady burn that races through your veins and a deafening drum that echoes in your ears._

_And so you curse. You cry out and you fling the rings from you. And you slam your hand against the table and you think you feel your tears fall a haphazard and messy trail down your face._

_And as you hear the rings skitter, as you hear them clang and bounce and roll somewhere in the distance you think you curse your stupidity._

_Fuck_

_You look down, your eyes searching the ground._

_Fuck_

_You drop to your hands and knees, your eyes scanning wildly, your hands reaching frantically._

_Fuck_

_You search wildly, a curse repeating through your mind and you think yourself foolish and stupid at discarding the rings in anger. And you think your eyes catch the glint of gold in the quiet of the setting sun and you know you let out a relieved sigh as your eyes fall onto a ring that lies under the couch. And you know you smile as your fingers reach out, as they close around it._

_And you think you curse once more as you begin searching for the other. And maybe you hope that it hasn’t left you forever. And maybe you hope you will have a chance to hold onto it. Just once more._

 

* * *

It’s not far. Just a quiet walk in the morning sun and you let your feet take you forwards, the gentle hum of the cars that pass a soothing beat to your ears. And as you hear the chatter of birds you think you smile for a moment, and as you pass others that walk, some carefree, some with their thoughts elsewhere you think they all live in a world of their own, with their own problems and their own trials and their own hopes and dreams and regrets. With their own wants. Their own chances and longings for a change. 

And aren’t you ready for your own now? 

You think you are, and you smile gently as you pass a morning walker, as you see the dog that walks the woman and you smile at the exasperation and the annoyance that lingers on her face. And as you come to the lights, as you pause until the moment when you can safely cross, you pull your jacket around yourself just a bit tighter, just enough so that the bite of the air is lessened for a moment. And so you breathe in, let the air fill your lungs and you think you will miss the warmth of the closing season. And you think the coming chill of a too close winter will leave you wary of the outside wind, wary of the biting cold. But maybe, with a chance and a change it will be less tiresome, less anguished than before. 

You’re ready for a change. 

 

* * *

 

You round a corner and you think a smile twitches the corners of your mouth, and you think the beating of your heart is just a bit stronger than you’ve felt in a long while. And as you move closer, as you let your feet carry you further you know you smile a quiet, careful, hopeful thing at the smell of the coffee that wakes your mind, and you know you feel the twitch in your fingers as the scents of sandwiches, toasted and fresh, wash over you. 

You pause for only a moment as you near the door, and you let your hand linger for just a fraction of a second on the handle. Just long enough to brace yourself and then you push forward, you let the warmth of the cafe wash over you and you let the gentle push and pull of the sounds, of the memories and the moments that linger, wind their way carefully through your mind. 

You find yourself seated in a corner, small and quiet. Out of the way of the bustle of the morning and you let your eyes flicker over the menu, you let your gaze fall onto the words that still sit comfortable and too ridiculous for you to repeat. But you think you already know your choice, and so you let your eyes trail to the TV that still rests on the wall and you let it carry your attention for a short while. 

It’s not long, just a short little moment. But you hear the door open, you see the flash of colour and the careful searching of eyes. And you think you smile gently when your eyes meet, and you think you smile when her hand raises. And you know you smile as she approaches. 

“Sorry I’m late,” she says as she nears, as she pulls the chair out from in front of you, “I was studying. I didn’t realise what time it was.”

And you smile again, shake your head for a moment. 

“It’s ok,” and you pass her a menu and you watch as her eyes flicker down, and you watch as she bites her lip for a moment, as she furrows her brow. And you smile when she looks up at you, and you think you already know the words you will both say. 

“What’re you having?” she asks, her eyes dancing in the morning light.

And so you shrug once, let it sit comfortably between you both. 

“Whatever you’re having,” and you see her cheeks redden, see her bite her lip once more and you know you love the way her eyes shine fiercely in the morning sun when she looks back to you, and you know you love the way her lip curls gently and you know you love the way her hair sways quietly as she leans forward.

“Smooth, Woods.”

And you know you love her.

“You’re welcome, Griffin.”   

She leaves to order, and you know what she will bring back. And so you let your eyes wander, let them fall back to the TV and maybe you grimace for a moment, and maybe you smile for a while as your eyes catch the car that races across the screen, as you recognise the actor, his face just a moment older. And you think your eyes roll and a sigh escapes your lips, just for a moment. 

“What?” she says then, handing you a knife and fork as she sits back down before you. 

“I can’t believe they’re making another one,” you smile.

“They’re good,” she protests lightly, her lips curving into a happy smile. 

“Yeah,” you pause for a moment and you let your eyes hold her gaze, “I guess they are.” 

And she smiles, and as you watch her eyes dance in the soft yellow of the light and as you see her hair as it shines a gentle golden pink in the rays of a rising sun you think yourself thankful. If only because she sits before you. If only because she reaches out tentatively, carefully and quietly. And you think you feel the steadying of your heart and the soothing of your mind as her hand reaches yours and as her fingers squeeze just for a moment. 

And so she says to you, her eyes shining brilliantly in the morning sun.

“I’m glad we finally did this.” 

And you think yourself happy with the once more that lives before you.

And so you let your hand hold hers.

And you smile.

“Me too.” 


	12. Epilogue

You wake to the quiet, to the gentle exhale of a breath and the cold of an empty bed. It takes you a moment, long enough for your thoughts to barely grace sleep once more, but you wake. The next breath comes with a strength that you often find yourself relieved to feel. It’s an expansion of your lungs, a fleeting recollection of thoughts of days past, of times lived and loved and lost. But you know yourself awake. 

And so you sit carefully, quietly, silently, your eyes tracing the solitude of the bed you sleep in. Your gaze finds the window, the barely there wisps of a soon to be winter only just breathing against the cool of the glass. Your eyes trace the flickering of a light, and it takes you only a moment to register the red, the frightful strength in its intensity. But it fades quickly, it bleeds into the brightness of a green, the liveliness of memories not wanted, of moments wished for and experiences yet to be had. And then it turns to amber once more, to a yellow, a soothing colour, a warm colour. Something that lets you think yourself in a cycle, in a time loop. 

But perhaps this time it isn’t so bad. If only because you remember the moments, however brief they may be. 

And so you slip from the bed, your toes meeting the cold bite of the floor and you find yourself shivering, hands clutching a blanket around yourself as you feel your way to the door. It only takes you a moment before you begin padding your way through the hallway, a light bringing sight to your tired eyes and so you follow it. 

Your eyes find a picture, you see the flash of a smile, the brightness of blonde hair in a morning sun and you see the brown of a wild mane and the glint and fierceness of green eyes that squint as the sun touches across a happy face. 

You feel a smile bring the corner of your lips up though, the sounds of a quiet grumbling meeting your ears and so you step carefully over the rising chest and you tread evenly over the tail that swishes back and forth ever so slightly in sleep. And maybe you can be forgiven for bending down just once, your fingers patting the warmth of the fur for a moment.

You find her though. You find her, back to you and she peers out into the world that exists beyond the warmth of the apartment you share. And you think it always the same, you think it may never be any different. But, if only because she is here, if only because she allows the once more, you think you would endure anything. Perhaps you know you already have. 

And doesn’t that mean it matters? That it’s important? That it’s worth suffering for?

“Sorry,” she says, her gaze meeting yours in the reflection you know she sees, her gaze focused somewhere outside, her eyes finding the drops of rain that patter and wend their way down the pane of glass. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” she finishes, a cup coming to her lips, the green of its colour muted, sombre, lonely. 

“You didn’t wake me,” you lie, and you know she knows from the frown, from the pursing of lips and the way she makes space for you to join her by the window. “Can’t sleep?” you question, but you know the answer after all these times.

“No,” she says, her head coming to rest against your shoulder, the fingers of her free hand threading through yours as you sit by her side. “It’s this month,” and she shrugs just once. “Bad memories,” she finishes into the cup. 

And so you let her lose herself to the thoughts she must have, to the memories she must relive, to the pain and the hope and the comfort she seeks. You stay quietly by her side, and you find your own eyes tracing the raindrops as they race down the glass, your eyes chase the flashes of colour, of lights that sparkle and refract before your gaze. 

But perhaps above all, you count the beats of your heart, you count the rhythm it sings, and you keep count to the thumping of her chest that you feel through the touch you share. 

“How’s Frank?” she asks after a moment, her head turning to look up at you. “Still asleep?”

“Yeah,” and you smile for a moment. “He sleeps through anything,” you finish.

“I can’t believe you called a dog Frank,” she laughs quietly, her voice just a breath and an exhale. 

“You got to choose the breed. I got to choose the name,” you counter, your finger prodding her thigh quietly, the prickling of her skin catching your eye for a moment. 

“You would have chosen a toy dog,” she says, conviction finding its way into her voice. 

“You would have loved it,” and you know she would have. 

“Yeah,” she smiles quietly, her fingers squeezing yours once. “I would have.”

And so you find yourself thinking of the metal against her finger, and you find your eyes tracing the gold around your own. And you know she must do the same because her hand squeezes yours, and her head leaves its place against your shoulder. 

“I love you,” and she makes sure her eyes find yours before she continues. “You know that right, Clarke?” 

And so you smile once more. And you are sure the memories that surface, however faint, however shallow, will continue to grow, will continue to take root and you know that they will linger long enough for you to grasp this once more you find yourself living. 

“I love you too, Lexa.”


End file.
